Reza
Aaron doesn’t do anything halfway.
I realize that the moment I step into the clearing.
Lanterns hang from the lower branches of the trees, their light warm and steady, not bright enough to glare, not dim enough to feel tentative. They’re placed with intention, far enough apart to let the dark exist between them, close enough that I never lose my footing. A table waits near the water’s edge, simple wood dressed with linen the color of moonlight. Candles flicker in glass holders, their flames steady despite the breeze that moves across the lake.
The lake itself is still.
Not flat but alive. The surface catches the moon and breaks it into silver shards that drift when the water moves. Fireflies blink along the treeline, slow and unhurried, like they’re part of the design rather than
