(journal entry, penned in Illidan's hand)
I did not know there were families who did this.
Not feasts, not festivals—those I understand. Rituals observed publicly, symbols agreed upon, meaning assigned. This was not that.
They exchanged gifts.
Not with ceremony. Not with expectation. Each thing was chosen because it would please the one receiving it. No tally was kept. No balance required.
I had brought nothing, yet no one remarked upon it. No one looked disappointed. No one made me feel… lesser.
They gave anyway.
Elise pressed food into my hands as if feeding me were the most natural thing in the world. Lucien gave me a journal—not because I had asked, but because he saw that I needed one. Zoya gave me a quill to match, as though it had always been obvious that such things belonged together.
And Lytavis—
I am not certain I should write about that clasp. If I do, I will not be able to stop.
It smells like jasmine.
She said it was for when I need steadying. As if she knows when that happens. As if she has already seen it.
I have lived among those who measure worth by insight and discipline. This was different. This was… quiet. Intentional. Warm.
They spoke. They laughed. They remembered. They drank cocoa and let the night pass without urgency.
I felt something settle in my chest. Not sharp. Not burning. Something heavier. Something that stayed.
Blessed is the word that comes closest, though I do not know why.
When it was over, I realized I had been holding Lytavis the entire time. Not possessively. Not protectively.
Simply… as though it were understood.
I did not know that the longest night could feel like this.
If this is what tradition is—
if this is what it means to belong—
Then I think I have been starving far longer than I realized.