(Journal fragment, penned in Illidan's hand.)
The Temple is marble and silence—a place for whispers and prayers. I have never cared for it.
Yet today it became the place where I heard her voice.
She read to children as if each word belonged to them alone. Even I listened.
I cannot recall the tale, only the steadiness in her tone.
When she looked up and saw me, she did not falter.
Few meet my eyes so directly.
Later, at the tea house, she laughed at something I said—not to mock, but to share it, as if the moment were ours.
Honey on her lips. Sunlight on her hair.
She spoke of foxes and kitchens as if such things mattered.
I listened not for meaning, but for the way she made the ordinary alive.
It unsettles me.
I am not one for tea. Nor for honey.
Yet tonight, both linger.