The Woodland Realm’s gardens shimmer in late morning light, dew still clinging to the grass as though reluctant to yield to the sun. High boughs arch overhead, filtering gold through a canopy of green. The air is alive with birdsong—thrushes darting between branches, doves cooing from shaded perches. A gentle brook whispers along moss-covered stones, its voice threading softly through the glade.

I stand at the edge of a white birch, my robe loose upon my shoulders, my crown absent. In my hands, I hold no scepter, no scroll—only a small flower crown, woven by my own fingers, clumsy yet cherished. Before me, Legolas laughs, his bright hair tumbling around his cheeks as he chases a squirrel that darts just out of reach. His giggles mingle with the song of the stream and the soft drumming of a distant woodpecker.

For a moment, there is peace—fragile, fleeting, but real.

And then I feel it.

A shift in the air, like the forest itself drawing breath and holding it. My gaze lifts. Across the garden’s open path, beneath arching limbs of elm and oak, a figure approaches. Sunlight catches in her pale hair, loose and gleaming like water poured from silver. Each step is measured, composed—yet the sight of her strikes me with a force I had not braced for.

For a heartbeat, I cannot move.

My lips part, but no sound comes. The years fall away in an instant, and yet here we stand—two souls bound by memory, separated by grief, and now tethered again in the morning light.

Legolas, oblivious to the way the world has stilled, toddles toward her with open curiosity. A bird sweeps low overhead as though heralding her arrival.

My breath leaves me in a quiet rush. “It is you…” The words escape before I can summon pause, soft as leaves stirring above—disbelieving, reverent, and aching all at once.