Morning bled slow across the treetops, layering the grove in translucent gold. Dew clung to every hanging vine; when a breeze teased the leaves, droplets fell like strings of tiny beads, pattering softly on the moss-planked platform where Sylara lay. She drifted in that fragile space between sleep and waking, cataloguing small sensations as they slid back into focus: the earthy perfume of damp bark, the distant click of wooden wind-chimes, the whisper of her own pulse running one shade faster than usual.