The fields woke before the people did.
Mist rolled in from the river, soft and low, curling around the huts like a hand remembering what to hold. The world was quiet in the way of a story that had finished all its shouting and was now content to hum under its breath.
Then, from the far meadow, a child’s cry broke the stillness—not fear, but astonishment.
Lena was already on her feet. She and Dominic ran through the wet grass, dew soaking their ankles, the sky pale with new light.
Three children knelt by the oak’s roots, staring upward.
“Look!” one said, voice trembling between wonder and worry.
They pointed at the sky.
There were letters up there again. Not words, not commands. Just drifting shapes—single characters drawn in sunlight and cloud, fading before they could form lines. A
