The grass is soft beneath me—warm, yielding, pressing gently against my back like the earth itself is cradling me. I lie beneath the old tree, its branches stretching wide above us, a canopy of green and gold casting shifting patterns across the ground.
Beside me, Silas rests his head on my chest, his weight a quiet anchor. His arm is draped across my waist, his fingers moving in slow, absent circles against the fabric of my shirt, tracing patterns I can't see but can feel with every touch. The rhythm of his movements is hypnotic—a gentle, patient pulse that seems to match the beat of my own heart.
The silence between us is not empty. It is filled with the rustle of leaves above, the distant call of birds hidden somewhere in the garden, and the soft whisper of wind passing through the branches.
