When the storm cleared, the island emerged anew. Fungal glows wove into forest floor. New foxglove bloomed alongside paths. Saplings unfurled new leaves. Fireflies thickened. The watchers moved slowly now, some near hearth, others at shrine stones, some drifting within homes' corners, silent presence that warmed.
Jude and Grace stood in orchard at midday. They watched Sel‑Tah guide wives in watchers' tongue, and children wore watchers' cravings of language.
He reached for Grace. "Memory became our gift, and now we share it."
She smiled. "Memory beloved."
Their gazes met, and from depth arose watchers' glow, like soft applause for covenant fulfilled.
Illuminated by sun, island thrummed. Life had both roots and wings.
As dusk approached, they gathered again, and watchers gathered beneath skies stained gold with fireflies. Each watcher's shape weaved with theirs, language alive between living things.