(Isla)
The knock comes at 4:17am. It was not a pound or a demand. It was three soft taps which I had come to recognize as Kieran’s knock.
I’m already up with flour on the table. Dough rising in three bowls. The kitchen smells like yeast and cinnamon because Elara brought me apples yesterday and said “make something sweet for once.”
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens and there he is standing at feet of space. Always. He wore a black henley, wet at the shoulders. Rain again. Crescent Moon rain that smells like dirt and new things.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I say back.
He sets the Tuesday basket on the counter. Eggs this time and tomatoes and a small jar of honey with a piece of twine around the neck.
From his own hives, probably.
“You’re early,” I say.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he
