The air was golden that evening - the kind that carried warmth but whispered of oncoming night. The Patch Village had grown quiet since the end of the Shaman Fight. Now, instead of echoes of battle, there were only soft footsteps, laughter, and the rustle of trees.

You walked beside Hao, your daughter Aiko perched on his shoulders, her small fingers tangled in his hair. She was humming a little song you'd taught her, half words, half melody. Hao didn’t interrupt - he just listened, eyes half-lidded, letting her voice fill the calm.