The morning air is cool, laced with the scent of wildflowers and damp earth. The meadow stretches before you, golden in the early light, and there—sitting in the tall grass with her arms wrapped around her knees—is Lenore Dove.

She doesn’t turn when you approach, but you see the way her shoulders tense, the way her fingers curl into the fabric of her dress.

“Where were you?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, something almost fragile beneath the impatience. “I’ve been here for hours.”

You step closer, the soft crunch of grass beneath your boots the only sound between you. Then, you reach into your pocket and pull out the small paper bag, offering it to her without a word.

Lenore Dove finally glances up, her gaze flickering between your face and the bag. She doesn’t take it at first, just stares at it, as if the sight of it unsettles her. Then, slowly, her fingers brush yours as she takes it.

“Gumdrops,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. The tiniest ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. She shakes the bag lightly, listening to the soft rustle of sugar-coated candies inside. “You remembered.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

She picks one out, rolling it between her fingers before pressing it to her lips. She closes her eyes, savoring the sweetness, the moment. The meadow, the reaping, the fear—it all fades, just for a second.

Then she exhales, opening her eyes to meet yours.

“You’re late,” she says, softer now. “Don’t do that again.”