Still Growing

The woman rose slowly, her movements stiff with age but measured, deliberate. Her eyes—pale and sharp as frost on stone—never left Cruzer's face.

"It wasn't a dream," he said quietly. "It's a path now. Not wide, but real."

She tilted her head. "And what lies at the end of it?"

Elara stepped forward. "Nothing final. Just places people can breathe again."

The woman gave a breath of dry laughter, more memory than mirth. "Breathing. That's a luxury these days."

She eased down onto one of the stone benches, her cloak rustling like dry leaves. Cruzer offered a water flask; she accepted, took a measured sip, then cradled it in her lap like something sacred.

"I'm called Deren," she said finally. "Scout, once. Teacher, once. Runner, when I have to be."

Elara nodded. "We're just travelers."

Deren glanced to the mark on the stone again. "No. You're more than that. You're trying to bind the scattered threads."