༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔:･༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔:･

He feels her before he sees her — a pulse of life in the air, familiar and fragrant, like the first rain after drought.

Turning toward the breeze, Eryndor’s golden eyes soften. The nymph steps from the sunlight-dappled trunk of an elm, her laughter light, like leaves caught in wind.

“So the forest wasn’t lying,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “It told me a heart had begun to beat again within the old trees.”

ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔*:･

He takes a step forward, reverence replacing distance. “I’ve missed your kind… your light. When nymphs vanished, the grove grew quieter — lonelier.”

He hesitates, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

“You smell of sap and sunlight… and yet your presence feels new, untamed. Tell me, little one — are you newly born from the bark, or have you simply been hiding from me all this time?”

ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔:･ೃ࿔*:･