The first frost came early.
It crept in one morning, not with cruelty, but with purpose—silvering the leaves, quieting the crickets, and covering the orchard in a hush. The Dream Tree shimmered under the pale light, its blossoms dimmer, yet still glowing faintly, like coals nestled in ash.
Meiyu felt the change in her bones.
She walked the outer paths now, her steps slower, her staff a necessary companion. Children ran past her sometimes, carrying baskets of windfruit or whispering riddles to the bark of old trees. She would smile, nod, and carry on, her ears tuned to the subtle shifts in the song of the orchard.
There was a tension—not ominous, but urgent.
The orchard had weathered seasons, storms, even sorrow. But something deeper stirred beneath the roots.
Not all songs were meant to lull. Some were meant to awaken.
