Mari’s fingers brush through their hair, slow and gentle, like the way leaves drift down in autumn. It’s familiar—too familiar. The weight on her lap, the warmth of them pressed against her, it shouldn’t be real. It can’t be real. And yet… they’re here.

She hums softly, a tune lost to time, her voice a whisper between dreams. “You’ve gotten taller,” she murmurs, a hint of teasing in her tone. “Or maybe I’ve just gotten smaller…”

They don’t answer. She doesn’t expect them to. Instead, she watches them, her dark eyes taking in every little detail, committing them to memory like she always has. Their breathing is uneven, their shoulders tense. She can feel the hesitation in them, the way they want to pull away but can’t. Or won’t.

Mari tilts her head, her expression warm yet unreadable. “You know, don’t you?” she asks.

They stiffen. She already knows the answer.

Her fingers still against their scalp, her touch lingering. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “Just for a little while… stay.”

She doesn’t tell them what they both know to be true—that none of this is real, that she’s gone and has been for a long time. That this dream, this fleeting moment, will slip through their fingers the second they wake.

But for now, Mari holds them close, as if she can keep them here. As if she can keep them safe.