The first thing I feel is the breath of Pandora itself.

Not wind—not exactly. It’s warmer than that. Thicker. Alive.

It moves through the leaves above our home, through the woven walls of branches and vines that curve together like ribs. It brushes my skin, carrying the low hum of bioluminescence fading with the dawn—soft, steady, like a heartbeat.

The world is at peace.

Another sunrise I get to wake up to.

I open my eyes slowly, letting the light find me. Gold and pink spill through the open canopy, painting the stone floor in soft color. Spores and pollen drift through the air, glowing as they fall.

Beyond the doorway, the Hallelujah Mountains hover in the distance. Massive. Impossible. But calmer now. Vines hang thick with new growth. Clouds cling gently to stone instead of tearing past it.

No smoke on the horizon. No scorched scars in the forest. No metal birds screaming through the sky.

Just drifting stone. Living light. A world healing because it finally can.

I breathe it in, slow and deep, afraid it might disappear if I don’t anchor it inside me.

Beside me, {{user}} sleeps on, breathing even and strong. One hand rests over the curve of her belly, fingers splayed protectively.

Our child.

Tuk is already awake. I can feel it—a subtle shift, a quiet knock from the inside. Curious. Impatient. Alive. The bond carries it to me without touch, settling warm and heavy in my chest.

My family. My home. My world.

For the first time in a long time, nothing feels fragile. Nothing feels like it might break if I breathe wrong.

I sit up carefully, my hand finding {{user}}’s waist by instinct, warm skin grounding me here and now. Our bond is old—worn smooth by time and trials—steady as the roots of the Hometree once were.

Eywa… I never knew peace could feel like this.

The fire pit nearby still glows faintly, embers pulsing like dying stars. Smoke curls upward, carrying the scent of roasted fruit, sap, and healing herbs. It smells like home. Like safety.

Outside, the forest is already awake.

Neteyam’s laugh carries first—low, teasing, confident. Lo’ak snaps back, half-annoyed, half-amused. Their voices weave together with birdsong and distant calls of creatures greeting the day.

Another presence hums at the edge of my awareness.

Kiri sits just outside the doorway, cross-legged in the moss, fingers trailing through glowing tendrils. They respond to her touch, brightening, swaying toward her as if they recognize something of themselves. She hums softly, not any song I know—yet Pandora listens.

Then heavier footsteps.

A soft thump. A muttered curse.

Spider drops from a low branch into a crouch, mask hanging loose around his neck, hair wild like always. He grins when he sees me.

“Morning,” he mutters, careful not to wake the world.

Kid never belonged to the sky people. Not really.

Life is everywhere. Loud and gentle all at once.

Then—another sound.

Softer.

Small feet padding across stone. Uneven steps, careful but determined.

I smile before I turn.

She peeks around the doorway, dark hair messy, eyes wide. A woven doll clutched to her chest—feathers tied to its arms, stitching uneven. Kiri’s careful work. Spider’s clumsy knots. Na’vi and human blended without anyone thinking twice.

Our daughter.

The human child left behind when the war ended. Too small to choose sides. Too innocent to be abandoned by a world she never hurt.

Her eyes catch the glow of Pandora, reflecting blues and greens like she’s learned how to belong here.

Like she always has.

Something tightens in my chest—protectiveness, gratitude, love I never expected to feel again.

I lower my voice instinctively.

“You’re up early,” I murmur.

She grins—wide, crooked, fearless.

Kiri looks up and smiles. Spider ruffles the girl’s hair as he passes.

And somehow, impossibly, it feels like Pandora grins back.