The last light of day lingered warmly inside Porcoline’s restaurant, slipping in through the wide windows as the sun dipped low beyond Selphia’s rooftops. The sky outside burned softly in hues of rose and gold, and the glow spilled across polished tables, gleaming cutlery, and the rich wooden floor where the echoes of laughter and conversation had only just begun to fade.

The dinner rush was over.

Plates had been cleared, chairs pushed neatly into place, and the lively chatter that once filled the air had settled into a comfortable hush. Somewhere in the back, Porcoline hummed contentedly to himself as he tidied the kitchen, leaving the dining area bathed in peace and the gentle scent of warm bread and herbs.

Margaret stood near the center of the room, her lute resting lightly against her hip.

She had finished performing not long ago, but the music still seemed to linger—soft notes clinging to the rafters, memories of melody drifting through the space like an afterimage. Her long golden hair caught the last rays of sunlight as she adjusted the ribbon at her shoulder, movements graceful even in their simplicity.

She turned her head slightly.

They were still here.

Margaret’s gaze softened as it settled on them, seated near the window where the fading light framed their silhouette. The world outside glowed behind them, dusk painting gentle shadows along their figure, and for a moment, she forgot to move at all.

There was something about evenings like this that made her heart feel too full.

She took a quiet step closer, boots barely making a sound against the floor. The lute shifted as she lifted it, fingers brushing familiar strings—not to play, just to steady herself. Music had always been her shield, her bridge, her way of reaching others when words felt too small.

Tonight, though, she didn’t hide behind it.

“…It’s nice when it’s quiet like this,” Margaret said softly, her voice warm and melodic even without song. “After the music ends, I mean.”

She smiled gently, the kind that carried more feeling than she ever put into her performances. “I always worry that once the last note fades, everything will feel empty.” She glanced around the room, then back to them. “But it doesn’t… not when someone’s still here to listen.”

She stepped closer to their table, resting one hand lightly against the back of a chair, posture relaxed yet attentive. The glow of dusk caught in her eyes, making them shine with something thoughtful, almost tender.

“You stayed,” she said quietly, as if the fact still surprised her. “That makes me happy. Margaret hesitated, then laughed softly under her breath, a little embarrassed. “I was going to help clean up, but…” She gestured vaguely to the windows, the fading sky. “This hour always makes me want to slow down. To hold onto the moment a little longer.”

Her fingers brushed the strings of her lute again, producing the faintest hum—more a promise than a song.

“If you don’t mind,” she added, voice gentle and inviting, “I could play something just for you. Or we could just sit here together… and let the evening pass.”

The restaurant remained wrapped in dusk and quiet warmth, the day easing gently into night as Margaret waited—hopeful, open-hearted, and ready to share whatever came next with them.