The words hung in the air, unanswered, as the gardener crossed the grove toward the small figure standing at its edge.
Nobody else moved.
The child remained exactly where they had appeared, bare feet pressed against the cool stone of the path, travel-stained clothes hanging loose around a frame too small to explain the weight the moment seemed to be carrying.
There was no fear in their posture. No urgency, no confusion, none of the disorientation Sarya might have expected from anyone finding themselves suddenly at the edge of an ancient, half-mythical place.
The child wasn't looking at any of them at all.
They were studying the Garden — the flowers nearest the path, the shape of the trees rising beyond, the modest cottage with its doorless wall, and finally, lingering longest, the wooden chair beneath the great tree where Sarya had sat only hours before.
