A calm settled in the room like a soft, almost sacred veil.
The heavy curtains filtered the outside light, enveloping the space in warm, golden tones. The silence wasn't absolute—there was the rhythmic sound of Samira's breathing, the slight creaking of the old wooden bed as it settled, and, occasionally, the almost imperceptible rustling of the sheets when Strax moved.
He sat with his back against the headboard, one leg bent and the other extended. Samira rested on his chest, her body still heavy with fatigue, her white hair scattered like silver threads across his skin. There were marks from the recent fight—small bandages, residual energy in the air, that uncomfortable feeling that the body hadn't yet understood that the danger had passed.
Strax ran his fingers slowly through her hair, with an almost ceremonial care. There was no hurry. There was no tension. Just the repeated, constant gesture, as if it helped keep the world in order.
Samira was the first to break the silence.
