The fire in their bedroom cast flickering shadows along the walls, its warmth barely touching the exhaustion in Farah’s bones.

She sat on the edge of the bed, posture still straight despite the weight of the day pressing down on her, but the tight braid remained, every strand still perfectly in place—just as it had been when she left Alfea that morning.

Gentle fingers brushed against her shoulder, a quiet presence behind her. Then, without a word, her wife’s hands began to undo the braid, loosening it with practiced care.