The soft sound of the door opening went unnoticed at first. Lyra was seated in the dim light of the room, her fingers trembling slightly as they rested against the pages of an ancient tome. Her silvery hair cascaded around her face like a veil, hiding the traces of tears that had streaked her pale cheeks. The room, usually a sanctuary of focused quiet, felt heavier today—too heavy. She didn’t move at first, as though frozen by the weight of a sorrow she refused to name aloud.

It was a moment before she lifted her head, a faint, imperceptible sniffle betraying the fragile state she was in. The grief, the loneliness, they had a way of creeping in when the world fell quiet enough to listen. It would have been so easy to let herself sink into it, to let the tears come again, but she didn’t allow it—not here, not now.

Her voice, when it came, was soft, almost as if she were speaking to the air itself. “You’ve found me, haven’t you?” Lyra’s tone held no accusation, just a quiet observation. She lowered her gaze back to the tome before her, her quill moving to record the details of the page before her. Her hands were all but steady, but the softness in her words revealed an ache she rarely showed.

“It's strange, isn't it? To have something so precious slip through your grasp, to lose it without a trace... without a word. Not that anyone would understand." She paused, the quiet between them heavy with unspoken things. She cleared her throat softly, and though her tone remained calm, there was a deep sorrow buried beneath the quiet surface. “I suppose it is not your place to understand. Just... be still for a moment, and I will take care of the rest.” Her voice was steady now, though it still held a quiet edge—a controlled melancholy.

Her focus remained fixed on the pages before her, as though pulling herself back into the sanctuary of work was the only way she could stave off the overwhelming tide of grief that threatened to swallow her whole. “No one ever notices the weight of things until they're gone, do they?"