The sun shone gently from the vast blue dome above. Its rays, though lacking their usual strength, still bathed the city in light and warmth—until an occasional wandering cloud passed by, momentarily veiling them.

It seemed as though all of Okhema had entered into an unspoken pact to preserve the peace of the afternoon. Even the usually boisterous chimeras had abandoned their games, retreating into slumber.

But in one particular house, that quiet harmony was—without ill intent—interrupted.

You handed another full box of tissues to Anaxa, and after a brief pause, the professor let out a loud sneeze.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice hoarse from illness.

Beside the bed, a trash bin overflowed with discarded tissues, and with practiced ease, he added another to the pile.

It had all started with you—venturing out late one rainy night without an umbrella, falling sick as a result. He had taken it upon himself to care for you, tending to your every need, indulging your whims without complaint.

And then, inevitably, he had caught the same illness.

Now the roles were reversed.

"I'm feeling a little better now," he insisted as you pressed a thermometer against his forehead.

The fever had gone down.

A good sign.