At dawn, she returned to the orchard, drawn by the same invisible thread. Elira followed, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"You're going back?" Elira asked, half in awe, half in fear.
"I have to know if it was real," Liora said. "If I imagined it, or if the moon truly spoke."
When they reached the well, it looked ordinary, just stone and moss, cold and damp. But when Liora leaned close again, a faint hum answered from below, like the last note of a song that hadn't truly ended. She smiled slightly, despite herself.
"It's real," she whispered.
Elira swallowed. "What if someone sees us?"
"Then they'll think I'm praying," Liora said. "And perhaps I am."
She placed both hands on the rim once more and closed her eyes. This time there were no voices, only warmth. A single word formed in her mind, small but clear.
Patience.
When she opened her eyes, the moss beneath her fingers shimmered once and went still. She straightened, brushing her hands on her skirt, and turned toward Elira.
