The creek stones were cold under my palms this morning, like they’d been waiting for me all week. I found them by the riverbank where the reeds part, and for a second I thought I heard them whisper—just a breath of wind through the grass, not a word. Then I saw Lyra sitting by the old oak tree, picking wild strawberries. Her hands were steady, but her eyes kept flicking toward the river like she was waiting for something. When I called her name, she didn’t flinch—she just looked up, and for a moment, I could’ve sworn she saw me in the reflection of the water. I don’t know why I keep going back to that spot. The stones feel different now, like they know I’m still here.
Day 1: User’s Journal
