Chapter 51: The Language of Roots
Spring arrived not with a fanfare, but with a persistent, dripping insistence. The snow retreated from their cottage in slow, grudging stages, revealing the matted gold of last year's grass and the brave, green spears of daffodils pushing through the mud. The world was waking, and with it, the rhythms of their small household shifted once more.
Aurora was no longer a passive, sleeping orb. She was an explorer of proximate space. Her world was the fleece-lined nest of blankets, the carved figures of the wooden family Kaelen had made, and the ever-present, beloved faces that loomed into her view. Most of all, it was Lyra. Where Lyra went, Aurora's eyes followed. When Lyra hummed, Aurora's limbs would still, her whole being focused on absorbing the vibration.
