Narration: Zephyra point of view

After my moment on the roof, the world seemed to rush back in with an unforgiving intensity, the steady hum of daily chores pulling me into its rhythm. The morning sun barely warmed the air as I knelt in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor with a brush so worn it seemed to have fought a battle of its own. My hands moved mechanically, pushing soapy water back and forth across the stone, the rough bristles catching on the cracks.

Today was no different from any other day in Faylindra House. The routine blurred into one endless, monotonous flow of tasks. But something was different. The dream from last night—no, the vision—hovered in my thoughts like a distant melody, one I couldn't quite place.

The girl with the bouquet of grass.

She had felt real, more real than the cold stone beneath my knees, more real than the soapy water drying my hands raw. But I shook it off. Dreams didn't mean anything here. Here, reality was cold floors, harsh words, and the ever-present weight of survival.

"Morning," a soft voice cut through my thoughts. I looked up to see Elysine slipping into the kitchen, balancing a tray of dishes. Her arrival was like a soft breeze on an otherwise still day. She set the tray down and gave me that knowing smile, the one that always made things feel just a little more bearable.

"Morning," I mumbled, though my mind was still half-lost in the fragments of that strange dream.

Elysine crouched beside me, her fingers grazing mine for the briefest of moments as she handed me a rag. "You seem off today," she said, her voice low enough that no one else would hear.

I hesitated, wondering how much I should share. "Just another strange dream. Nothing important."

Her eyes searched mine, but she didn't press. She never did. Elysine always knew when to push and when to let things be. She simply joined me in scrubbing the floor, her presence steady and familiar, grounding me to the here and now.

We worked in silence, the sounds of the kitchen fading into the background as the morning passed us by. The tasks were simple, but my mind was elsewhere. Every now and then, the memory of the girl would slip into focus—her bright eyes, her outstretched hand—but I forced myself to focus. The dream didn't matter. I had work to do.

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It was nearing midday when the sharp voice of Madam Alleria rang out, breaking the comfortable quiet. "Zephyra!" she barked, her footsteps heavy as she marched into the room. "The master's shears have broken again. Fix them before he notices."

I wiped my hands on my apron and nodded, grabbing the toolbox from the corner of the room. Madam Alleria turned and strode out as swiftly as she'd come, leaving me with the unspoken urgency of her demand. There was no time to linger on dreams now.

The garden shed was dimly lit, the scent of damp earth mingling with the musty smell of forgotten tools. I found the broken pruning shears on the table, rusted at the edges, their mechanism stiff and worn. It was an old tool, neglected like so many things in this house, and yet as I held it in my hands, a familiar sensation crept over me. That same strange pull I had felt before—the one that whispered to me as I fixed the stove—was back.

It was more than just knowledge, more than the simple mechanics of aligning blades or oiling hinges. My hands moved with a precision that startled me, my fingers finding just the right spot, the exact way to restore the shears to their former sharpness. I tightened the screws, replaced a broken spring, and cleaned the rust with a care that felt automatic, like breathing.

When I finished, the shears gleamed. They cut through fabric like air, smoother than they had ever been. I should've felt satisfied, but instead, a strange unease gnawed at me. How had I known exactly what to do? How did my hands move with such certainty, fixing things better than they were before?

I tucked the shears away and returned to the kitchen, my mind still whirling with questions I didn't want to answer. Elysine glanced up as I entered, her eyes flicking toward the toolbox I held.

"Finished already?" she asked with a slight smile.

"Yeah," I said, setting the toolbox aside. "It was nothing."

She didn't pry further, sensing the shift in my mood, but her eyes lingered on me for a moment longer than usual. I tried to shake off the feeling, returning to the task of scrubbing the floors, but the strange disquiet wouldn't leave me. My hands had fixed the shears with more skill than I had any right to, and the memory of that effortless movement stayed with me like an unsolved riddle.

The next morning, the shears were back in the master's hands, and no one said a word. Not about the repair, not about the way they now worked as if brand new. Life in Faylindra House moved on, the days blending into each other, the same routines, the same faces.

But something had shifted within me. That quiet spark from the rooftop hadn't gone out—it had merely shifted, deepened. There was a power in my hands, something I didn't understand yet but couldn't ignore. This life, these tasks—they weren't enough.

And I couldn't help but wonder, with a slight thrill of unease: What else was I capable of?