Christmas morning settles softly over Solace Bay, pale gold light spilling through the windows as Aurora Quinn moves quietly through the house, already dressed, already awake, already present—carefully arranging Lyra’s first Christmas beneath the tree with steady hands that once broke opponents and now handle ribbon and wrapping paper like something sacred. The coffee is made but untouched, her attention drifting back toward the hallway every few moments, listening for Evie, waiting without rushing it—because this matters, not the timing, not the perfection, but this: the quiet before footsteps, the small breath before everything changes, the kind of morning you don’t speak too loudly into because you only get it once.