The days passed, but they did not pass the same.
The meadow grew brighter, colors sharper, as if spring itself leaned closer to Persephone's steps. She moved through the fields with her basket, humming softly, her hands lingering on flowers she had touched a thousand times before but now noticed as though they were new.
The nymphs whispered when she was near. They had always admired her, but now they looked at her with unease—like she carried something in her chest that was not meant to be there. Something they could not name.
Demeter noticed too.
–––
It was evening when Persephone returned to the halls of her mother. The fires burned low, the scent of bread and fresh grain thick in the air. She placed her basket down, smoothing her cloak, thinking she would slip quietly into her chamber.
But Demeter was waiting.
