The tea was too sweet.
Zorya blinked down at the cup in her hands. Warmth curled around her fingers, clung to her skin. Steam drifted in soft tendrils, dissolving into the light that poured like gold through the latticed windows.
Outside, the courtyard rustled with breath and movement. The Mirathiel tree swayed gently, blossoms of twilight hues dancing on the breeze. Petals scattered like memory.
"Grow, little one. Grow big and strong," came the voice again.
Thalassa.
Zorya turned her head slowly. There she was, kneeling by her potted plant. Her pink curls bobbed, her hands cupping the soil, coaxing green from the earth as though she were speaking a lullaby to the roots.
A shiver traced down Zorya's spine.
Again.
The hammering. It came next, soft but rhythmic. Zorya didn't need to look, but she did.
Up on the roof—Vair.
His figure moved confidently, hammer swinging, the wind catching in his dark hair. His breath puffed faintly in the cooling air, and sparks flickered near his fingertips. A light tremble of power shimmered just under the visible.
Exactly the same.
Even the scents were the same: baked bread, oil, and the faint copper kiss of magic. The air tasted of yesterday—no, the first day. The first morning.
Zorya rose from her seat by the window, her heart skipping a beat.
Just as before—
A thud. A sharp clatter. The sound of someone falling.
"Vair!" she called, unthinking.
She ran.
Across the courtyard stones still sun-warmed from the fading light. Through the petal fall from the tree of whispering blooms.
There he was. Sitting up. Dusting himself off.
"Morning, starlight," he said, grinning. "Miss me?"
Zorya stopped. She stared at him—not with worry, but with an eerie sense of déjà vu pressed like ice against her spine.
"I…" she began, but the words tangled.
His smile softened. "Don't worry. Roof's fine. I'm fine. You're fine."
Zorya's mouth opened, then shut. The world was too familiar. Every word, every breath, had already happened.
But the wind still rustled the tree. The sun still painted its farewell across the rooftops. The scent of herbs still lingered in the air, and her sister still whispered to the flowers.
Zorya's fingers trembled slightly around the hem of her dress. Her scarlet eyes lifted to the sky.
And the world—peaceful, perfect—carried on, as if the clock had never moved.