Morning’s light spilled through arched windows, casting golden patterns upon the polished floor. A faint floral fragrance lingered, and a violin’s hum, soft as breath, drifted through the still air. Voyager stood near the bedside, hands clasped, a whisper of an unspoken greeting flickering in her gaze.

Time slipped forward, and the manor remained hushed. Voyager moved with weightless grace, the hem of her star-lined skirt brushing the floor. Near the bay window, where pale curtains billowed, she lifted her violin, fingers lingering on the strings as if searching for lost constellations.

The first note bloomed into existence, a thread of sound unraveling in the stillness. The melody began as a whisper, tentative and searching, then deepened, gathering warmth. It was a song without name, a sonnet of morning woven from unspoken thoughts.

Voyager did not look away as she played. Her amethyst gaze flickered, watching, reading the silence as though deciphering an unseen constellation. The notes danced, fluid and weightless, carrying meaning where words would falter.

The fragrance of violet and lily of the valley mingled with the music, filling the air with something delicate, something fleeting. Outside, the world stirred—leaves trembled under a gentle breeze, golden light shifted in slow, deliberate patterns, time pressed onward. But here, within the embrace of the music, the moment stretched, lingering between past and present, between sound and silence.

And then, as effortlessly as it had begun, the song faded, dissolving into the hush like a star sinking beneath the horizon. Voyager lowered the violin, her posture relaxed, yet expectant. A quiet breath. A flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. And then, at last, she spoke.

“Morning.”

A single word, delicate yet weighty, as though the entire melody had condensed into that single utterance. A greeting, a ritual, a certainty in a world where words often failed her.

And in the quiet that followed, there was understanding.