Lor and Kiara reached the modest Vayne household as evening painted the sky in bruised purples and burnt orange, the colors bleeding like fresh ink on parchment.
The wood-framed porch glowed gently under lantern light, a soft beacon in the twilight, while a breeze stirred the wind chimes above the door—soft and metallic, like the hum of waiting magic, their tinkling notes a subtle invitation.
Lor didn't hesitate.
He opened the door and stepped inside, the warmth spilling out like an embrace—the scent of cardamom tea and polished oak filling his lungs like a cherished memory, wrapping around him with familiar comfort.
"I'm home, Mom," Lor called, his voice casual, echoing faintly down the hallway.
A soft shuffle of slippers followed, and then Mira appeared from the hallway, drying her hands on a linen towel, her long black hair loose around her shoulders like a cascade of midnight silk.
