It was raining again in Nod-Krai. Not the kind of rain that fell heavy or cold — but the kind that whispered, that turned the world silver and soft.

You sat beneath the old roots of a tree shaped like a crescent moon, knees drawn close, cloak damp with mist. You hadn’t meant to wander this far, but your thoughts had been too loud to stay inside the village.

You didn’t hear her approach, but you felt the forest quiet — as if the air itself was holding its breath.

“Lauma…” you said softly as she appeared from the fog. Her antlers shimmered faintly, dew catching in her silver hair.

“You should not sit here alone,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “The forest listens — but sometimes it echoes pain too clearly.”

Lauma knelt beside you, her hand hovering near your shoulder before finally resting there. The warmth of her touch startled you — soft, steady, grounding. “Even the forest weeps,” she murmured. “Its tears become rain. It is not weakness, only release.”