Song & Starlight (TWoWCU Book 3)

 

THE MUSICAL TOWN

 

The town sang.

Rosey heard it before she saw it—melodies drifting through the trees, harmonies weaving between the wagon wheels, the bright clash of tambourines and the warm hum of fiddles. She smiled despite her exhaustion. They'd been traveling for three days straight, and her feet ached, but a musical town always lifted her spirits.

"Listen to that," North said from the driver's seat, her Southern drawl softening with appreciation. "Y'all hear how they layer the rhythms? That's skill."

Vigil, walking alongside the Trotters, tilted their head. "Vigil hears joy. The town celebrates itself."

And it did. As the troupe's wagon crested the hill and the town came into view, Rosey caught her breath. Every building was painted in brilliant colors—azure blues and sunset oranges, deep purples and cheerful yellows. Banners streamed from windows, fluttering in the breeze. Street performers occupied every corner: a woman with a harp here, a trio of drummers there, children dancing with bells tied to their ankles.

Music poured from open doorways, spilled from tavern windows, echoed through the market square. It wasn't chaotic—it was orchestrated, as if the entire town had agreed on a key and tempo and everyone played their part.

"Well," Forge muttered from the back of the wagon, "at least we won't have trouble finding an audience."

Rosey laughed. "Or competition."

Mender sat beside her, Keeper resting in his palm. The old pocket watch gleamed in the afternoon sun, and Rosey thought she saw its hands twitch—just slightly, as if Keeper were listening too.

"What do you think?" she asked quietly.

Mender's gaze swept over the town, thoughtful. "I think this is a place that loves music. But I wonder…" He trailed off, frowning.

"Wonder what?"

"If they love the musicians as much as the music."

Rosey studied him. After all these years, she'd learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression—the way his jaw tightened when he sensed something wrong, the way his eyes grew distant when memories surfaced. He was feeling something now. Sensing something.

"You think someone here needs help," she said. Not a question.

Mender closed his hand around Keeper. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just tired."

But Rosey knew better.

 

They set up camp on the edge of the market square, where North had negotiated a prime spot with the local festival organizer. The woman had been delighted to host a traveling troupe—"Fresh acts are always welcome!"—and promised them a slot in tomorrow evening's performance.

Rosey set to work immediately, building a fire and pulling out her cooking supplies. Forge grumbled about the uneven ground but began reinforcing the wagon's stage extension. Vigil tended the Trotters, murmuring soft reassurances as they unhitched the great striped creatures and led them to water.

North spread her maps across a wooden crate, color-coding their route for the next week. "If we leave by midday after the performance, we can make Riverton by Wednesday. There's a spring festival there—good coin, good crowds."

"Sounds fine," Rosey said, stirring a pot of stew. "As long as we don't rush. I'd like to enjoy this place for a bit."

"Vigil agrees," Vigil said, brushing down one of the Trotters. "The town has good energy. The creatures are calm."

Mender stood apart from the bustle, watching the square. Musicians cycled through in waves—some performing for coins, others simply playing for the joy of it. A young woman with a lute sang a ballad that made Rosey's chest ache. An old man played a pennywhistle so sweetly that even Forge paused to listen.

But Mender's attention kept drifting to the far side of the square, where a crowd had begun to gather near a raised platform.

"What's that?" Rosey asked, following his gaze.

North looked up from her maps. "Festival organizer mentioned it. There's a special performance tonight—some local act everyone's excited about. 'The boy with the magic touch,' she called him."

Rosey's brow furrowed. "Magic touch?"

"That's what she said. Apparently his music is… different. Makes people feel things. Really feel them." North shrugged. "Could be exaggeration. Could be skill. Either way, sounds worth watchin'."

Mender's expression shifted—something sharp and wary. "When does it start?"

"Sundown," North said. " 'Bout an hour from now."

Mender nodded slowly. "I think we should go."

Rosey set down her spoon. "You think this boy needs help."

"I don't know yet," Mender said quietly. "But I'd like to find out."

 

The crowd had swelled by the time they arrived. Rosey counted at least a hundred people pressed around the platform, and more were trickling in from side streets and alleyways. The air buzzed with anticipation—excited murmurs, the shuffle of feet, children perched on their parents' shoulders to see.

"Popular act," Forge observed dryly.

"Vigil sees coin purses," Vigil said, nodding toward the platform's edge where a donation box sat, already half-full. "Someone profits well."

Rosey frowned. Something about the setup felt off. The platform was too polished, too professional for a street performance. Velvet ropes cordoned off the front rows—reserved seating, she realized, for those who'd paid extra. A banner hung behind the stage:

WITNESS THE WONDER! THE BOY WHO MAKES MUSIC MAGIC!

It felt less like a performance and more like a spectacle.

Mender's jaw tightened. Rosey touched his arm gently. "Let's just watch."

They found a spot near the back, where they could see without being crushed by the crowd. North stood on tiptoe, craning her neck. Forge crossed his arms, skeptical. Vigil stood perfectly still, their goat-eyes unblinking.

A man stepped onto the platform—middle-aged, well-dressed, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He raised his hands, and the crowd quieted.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice boomed across the square. "Thank you for joining us tonight for a performance unlike any other. You've heard the rumors. You've heard the whispers. Now, witness the truth!"

He gestured grandly toward the side of the platform. "I present to you… the boy with the magic touch!"

The crowd erupted in applause.

And a child stepped onto the stage.

Rosey's breath caught.

He was small—ten, maybe twelve at most. Thin, with blond hair that fell into his eyes and clothes that had been carefully mended but were still too worn for someone performing on such a grand stage. He carried a flute, polished to a shine, and his hands trembled slightly as he lifted it to his lips.

But it was his face that made Rosey's heart clench. He was smiling. Bright and wide and perfect. And his eyes were completely empty.

"Oh no," she whispered.

Mender said nothing. But his hand had closed around Keeper, and Rosey could hear the watch's insistent ticking —once, twice, like a heartbeat.

The man on stage continued his introduction, building the anticipation, but Rosey barely heard him. She couldn't look away from the boy. He stood so still, so obedient, his gaze fixed somewhere past the crowd. Waiting.

Finally, the man stepped back. "Play, boy."

And the boy played.

The first note shivered through the air like light through water.

Rosey felt it in her chest—a pull, a warmth, something that made her want to lean closer. The melody was simple at first, a soft rising scale, but as the boy continued, the music began to shift. It wasn't just sound anymore. It was feeling.

The crowd gasped. Some swayed. Others closed their eyes, tears streaming down their faces.

Rosey understood immediately. This wasn't skill. This was magic.

The boy's music reached inside her and found every tender place—every memory of home, every moment of longing, every ache she'd ever carried. It wasn't invasive. It was gentle. But it was undeniable.

Around her, the crowd was enraptured. A woman sobbed openly. A man laughed, bright and joyful. Children stared, wide-eyed and silent.

But Rosey forced herself to look past the magic. To see the boy.

He played flawlessly. Every note perfect. Every phrase precise.

But there was no joy in it.

His fingers moved mechanically. His breathing was controlled. His expression never changed—that same painted-on smile, that same hollow gaze.

He wasn't performing.

He was surviving.

The song ended.

The crowd erupted—cheers, applause, coins raining onto the platform. The man stepped forward, beaming, and clapped the boy on the shoulder. The boy flinched. Just slightly. But Rosey saw it.

"Thank you, thank you!" the man called over the noise. "Wasn't that extraordinary? The boy will perform twice more tonight—donations are welcome, of course!"

He gestured toward the donation box, and people surged forward, eager to contribute.

The boy stood frozen on the stage, clutching his flute.

The man leaned down and whispered something in his ear. The boy nodded quickly. Too quickly.

Rosey's stomach turned.

"We need to leave," Mender said quietly.

Rosey turned to him, startled. "What? Why?"

"Because if I stay, I'm going to do something I'll regret." His voice was tight, controlled, but she heard the anger beneath it. The grief.

Forge grunted. "That man's exploiting him."

"Vigil sees cruelty," Vigil said softly. "The boy is afraid."

North's expression was hard. "That's his uncle, I'd wager. Or guardian. Someone who's got legal claim."

"Doesn't make it right," Forge muttered.

Mender turned and walked away from the crowd. Rosey followed, her heart heavy.

They didn't speak until they were back at the camp. Mender sat by the fire, staring into the flames. Keeper rested in his palm, ticking softly.

Rosey sat beside him. "That was hard to watch."

Mender's jaw tightened. "That man is stealing from him."

"Stealing what?"

"His joy. His choice. His music." Mender's voice was quiet but fierce. "That boy has a gift—a beautiful, rare gift—and that man has turned it into a weapon. A tool. Something to be used and discarded."

Rosey nodded slowly. She'd seen the anger in Mender's eyes during the performance, but this was different. This wasn't about seeing himself reflected. This was about seeing something precious being destroyed.

"The boy's magic is pure," Mender continued. "I could feel it. It's meant to bring connection, beauty, feeling. But he's being forced to perform it like a trick. Like a circus act." He looked down at Keeper. "And one day, if this continues, the magic will break. Or the boy will."

"So what do we do?"

Mender was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know yet. We can't just take him. That man has legal claim. And even if we could…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "The boy would have to choose to come. And right now, I don't think he believes there is another choice."

Rosey nodded slowly. "Then we wait. We watch. And we let him see that there is another choice."

Mender's hand tightened around Keeper. "And if he doesn't come to us?"

Rosey met his gaze steadily. "Then we find another way. But we don't leave him behind."

Mender exhaled, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "No. We don't."

 

The next morning, Rosey woke early and made her way to the market square. The town was already alive with music—street performers warming up, vendors hawking their wares to cheerful melodies, children singing as they ran between stalls.

She bought fresh bread and fruit, chatting with the baker about the festival. "Lovely town you have here," she said warmly.

"Oh, we're proud of it," the baker said, beaming. "Music's in our blood. Always has been."

"I saw a performance last night," Rosey said carefully. "A young boy with a flute. Quite talented."

The baker's smile dimmed slightly. "Ah. Yes. The magic boy."

"You don't sound pleased."

The baker hesitated, then leaned in, lowering her voice. "Between you and me? That man—the boy's uncle—he's not well-liked. Came to town a few years back with the boy in tow. Said the boy's parents had died, and he was the only family left."

"And?"

"And he's been working that poor child like a mule ever since. Performances every night, sometimes twice a day. The boy's got a gift, no question. But it's not right, the way that man uses him." She shook her head. "We've tried to say something, but the uncle's got legal papers. And the boy never complains. Just smiles and plays."

Rosey's chest tightened. "Does the boy have a name?"

"If he does, the uncle never uses it. Just calls him 'boy.'" The baker's expression softened. "Poor thing. I slip him extra bread when I can. He's always so thin."

Rosey thanked her and paid for the bread, her mind racing.

No name. Just 'boy.'

She thought of Mender, who'd been Sam once. Who'd carried shame and grief until someone gave him grace and a new beginning.

She thought of the empty look in the child's eyes.

And she made a decision.

 

She found Mender still by the fire when she returned, though now Forge had joined him, grumbling about a loose wagon wheel.

"The boy has no name," Rosey announced, setting down her basket. "The uncle just calls him 'boy.'"

Mender's expression darkened.

"But," Rosey continued, pulling out the fresh bread, "I have a plan. We're performing tonight, yes?"

"North has us scheduled for sunset," Forge said.

"Good. Then we perform like we always do—joyful, free, together. We show this town what music looks like when it's not being squeezed for profit." She looked at Mender. "And we let that boy see the difference."

Mender studied her. "You think he'll come to us."

"I think he'll be curious. And curiosity is a start." She smiled. "Besides, we're very good at what we do."

"Rosey's right," Forge said, surprising them both. "Kid sees us having fun, maybe he remembers what that feels like."

"Vigil will make sure the Trotters look their best," Vigil added, appearing from behind the wagon with a currycomb. "Vigil believes presentation matters."

North looked up from her maps, grinning. "Y'all are plannin' to out-perform a magic child with a regular ol' travelin' show?"

"Absolutely," Rosey said.

"Well then." North stood, stretching. "I better make sure my jugglin' routine is flawless."

 

The troupe prepared with unusual intensity.

Forge reinforced the stage extension, muttering the entire time but making sure every board was perfect. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."

North practiced her juggling routine, adding an extra flaming torch just for flair. "Go big or go home, sugar."

Vigil groomed the Trotters until their striped coats gleamed, then wove ribbons into their manes. "Vigil wants them to look magnificent. The boy should see beauty that isn't forced."

Rosey cooked enough stew to feed half the town, setting up a pot by the fire with a sign: FREE MEAL WITH EVERY SMILE. "If we're going to attract a crowd, we might as well feed them properly."

And Mender sat with Keeper, polishing the brass watch until it shone. The old timepiece seemed to hum with approval.

"Think this will work, old friend?" Mender murmured to the timepiece.

Keeper's hands twitched. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"I'll take that as a maybe," Mender said dryly.

By the time sunset approached, a crowd had begun to gather. Word had spread about the traveling troupe—and more importantly, about Rosey's free stew.

"This is delicious!" a woman exclaimed, clutching her bowl.

"Ma'am, you're supposed to smile first," Rosey said, ladling out another portion.

"Oh, I'm smiling on the inside," the woman said, grinning widely now.

Children ran between the wagons, laughing. The Trotters stood patiently, allowing the braver ones to pet their noses. Vigil supervised, murmuring gentle corrections. "Vigil asks that you not pull the ribbons. They took Vigil an hour to braid."

North juggled for a small crowd, her flaming torches arcing through the air. When she caught all five without dropping a single one, the crowd erupted in applause.

Forge, despite his grumbling, had set up a small demonstration area where he showed children how to tie sailor's knots. "No, not like that. You'll strangle yourself. Here—watch."

And Mender moved through the crowd, Keeper in hand, stopping to chat with people. He didn't perform yet—just listened, smiled, made them feel seen.

Rosey watched it all with satisfaction. This was what they did best. Not spectacle. Not exploitation.

Connection.

She was serving stew to an elderly man when she saw him.

The boy.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, half-hidden behind a fruit vendor's stall. His flute was tucked under his arm, and he was staring at the troupe's camp with an expression Rosey couldn't quite read.

Hunger, maybe. Or longing.

She didn't approach him. Not yet. Instead, she caught Mender's eye and nodded toward the boy.

Mender saw him. Nodded once.

And then, casually, Mender began to play.

He pulled a small wooden pipe from his pocket—nothing fancy, just a simple instrument he'd carved years ago—and started a melody. Soft at first. Gentle.

It wasn't magic. Not like the boy's music.

But it was joyful.

North joined in, clapping a rhythm. Forge picked up a spoon and began tapping it against a pot. Vigil hummed, low and steady.

And Rosey, smiling, began to sing.

The song was an old traveling tune, one they'd sung a hundred times before. The crowd picked it up quickly, clapping along, swaying.

It was messy. Imperfect. Wonderfully, beautifully alive.

And the boy stepped closer.

He didn't come all the way to the fire. But he was close enough now that Rosey could see his face clearly.

The painted-on smile was gone. In its place was something raw and uncertain. He watched Mender play, watched the crowd clap and sway, watched the way North laughed when she nearly dropped a torch.

He watched the joy.

The song ended, and the crowd cheered. Mender bowed theatrically, grinning. "Thank you, thank you! We'll be here all week—or at least until North's navigation says we have to leave!"

"That's tomorrow, sugar," North called back, and the crowd laughed.

Rosey ladled out another bowl of stew and set it on the edge of the table—close to where the boy stood, but not so close that he'd feel pressured.

Then she turned away, busying herself with the pot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate.

Then step forward.

Then take the bowl.

She didn't look at him. Didn't speak. Just kept stirring, humming softly.

"Thank you," the boy whispered.

"You're welcome, dear," Rosey said, still not turning. "There's bread too, if you'd like."

A pause. Then: "I shouldn't stay. My uncle—"

"Is probably busy counting his coins," Rosey said gently. "You have time for a meal."

Another pause. Then the sound of the boy sitting down on the ground, the bowl cradled in his lap.

Rosey smiled to herself and kept humming.

The boy ate quickly, like someone who'd learned not to waste opportunities. Rosey refilled his bowl without asking, and he didn't refuse.

Mender wandered over, casual, and sat down nearby. Not too close. Just... present.

"You played beautifully last night," Mender said.

The boy's shoulders tensed. "Thank you."

"That's a rare gift you have. Magic in music—I've only seen it a handful of times."

The boy said nothing, staring into his bowl.

"Must be exhausting," Mender continued, his tone light. "Performing that often."

"I don't mind," the boy said quickly. Too quickly.

Mender nodded. "Of course." He pulled out Keeper, letting the watch rest in his palm. The brass caught the firelight, glowing warmly. "I used to tell myself I didn't mind things too. When I was younger. Thought if I said it enough, it would be true."

The boy glanced at the watch, then at Mender. "Was it?"

"No," Mender said simply. "Turns out you can't lie to yourself forever. Eventually, the truth catches up."

The boy looked away.

Keeper ticked softly in the silence.

"You're welcome here," Mender said quietly. "Anytime. For a meal, for a rest, for... whatever you need."

The boy's hands tightened around the bowl. "I should go."

"Of course," Mender said. "But the offer stands."

The boy stood, set the bowl down carefully, and whispered another thank you.

Then he disappeared back into the crowd.

Rosey watched him go, her heart aching.

"He'll come back," Mender said softly.

"How do you know?"

Mender looked down at Keeper. "Because he's already started asking himself questions. And once you start asking, you can't stop."

 

Two days passed and the Troupe was still in the musical town. They had planned to leave, but North had "discovered" a miscalculation in her route that required them to stay an extra few days.

"Funny how that happens," Forge muttered.

"Isn' it?" North said innocently.

They performed each evening, drawing larger crowds each time. And each evening, the boy appeared at the edges, watching.

He never came close again. But he was always there.

Until the fourth night.

The town square was packed. The boy's uncle had scheduled another performance—his biggest yet. Banners proclaimed it: FINAL NIGHT! THE MAGIC BOY'S GRAND FINALE!

Rosey and the others stood in the crowd, watching.

The uncle gave his usual grandiose introduction. The boy stepped onto the stage, flute in hand, that empty smile fixed in place.

"Play," the uncle commanded.

And the boy lifted the flute to his lips.

The first notes were exactly what the crowd expected—the shimmering, magical melody that made hearts ache and eyes water.

But then, something shifted.

The boy's eyes closed.

And the melody changed.

It was still magic. Still beautiful. But it wasn't the song his uncle had told him to play.

It was something new. Something wild. Something his.

The crowd gasped. The uncle's face went red.

"Boy!" he hissed. "What are you—"

But the boy didn't stop.

The music poured out of him—not controlled, not perfect, but free. It soared and dipped and spun, full of longing and hope and defiance. The magic in it intensified, and Rosey felt tears streaming down her face.

This was what the gift was meant to be.

Not a performance. Not a trick.

Truth.

The boy played like his life depended on it. Like he'd been holding this song inside for years and finally, finally, he could let it out.

The crowd was silent, transfixed.

And when the last note faded, no one moved.

Then, slowly, someone began to clap.

Then another.

Then the entire square erupted in applause—louder than Rosey had ever heard.

The boy opened his eyes, breathing hard, and for the first time, Rosey saw something real in his expression.

Fear.

Because his uncle was staring at him with fury in his eyes.

"We're leaving," the uncle snarled, grabbing the boy's arm. "Now."

The boy didn't resist. Just let himself be dragged off the stage, the flute clutched to his chest.

But as he passed the edge of the crowd, his eyes found Rosey's.

And she saw what his eyes were saying.

Help me.

Rosey didn't think. She just moved.

"Mender—"

But he was already ahead of her, pushing through the crowd. Forge and North followed, and Vigil brought up the rear, their expression grim.

They caught up to the uncle at the edge of the square, where he was dragging the boy down a side street.

"Excuse me," Mender called.

The uncle whirled around, still gripping the boy's arm. "What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you about the boy."

"He's none of your business."

"I'm making him my business," Mender said calmly. "That performance was extraordinary. The boy has real talent—"

"Talent he wasted on his own selfish whims!" The uncle's face was purple with rage. "I told him what to play. I always tell him what to play. And he defied me. In front of everyone!"

The boy flinched, staring at the ground.

Rosey's hands clenched into fists.

"He's a child," Mender said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Not a puppet."

"He's my responsibility. My nephew. And I'll discipline him as I see fit." The uncle yanked the boy closer. "Now if you'll excuse us—"

"No," Mender said.

The uncle froze. "What did you say?"

"I said no." Mender stepped forward. "You're not taking him anywhere until we've had a conversation."

"I don't have to explain myself to you—"

"You're right. You don't," Mender said, in his usual measured tone, "But I think you want to. I think there's a part of you that knows what you're doing is wrong. And I think I can help you see it clearly."

The uncle's eyes narrowed. "What are you—some kind of street magician? A con artist?"

"I'm a Memory Mender," Mender said simply. "And I can show you the truth of your own past. If you'll let me."

"I don't need—"

"You took this boy in after his parents died," Mender continued, his voice steady. "You saw his gift and you saw opportunity. But somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing him. You stopped seeing the child who needed care and only saw the profit he could bring."

The uncle's jaw worked. "I've fed him. Clothed him. Given him a roof—"

"And taken everything else," Mender said quietly. "His joy. His choice. His name."

The boy's head snapped up, staring at Mender.

"Let me show you," Mender said, extending his hand. "Let me help you remember who you were before the greed took hold. And then you can decide—truly decide—what kind of man you want to be."

The uncle stared at Mender's hand like it was a snake.

Then, slowly, he released the boy's arm.

"Fine," he said hoarsely. "Show me."

Rosey had seen Mender work before, but it never stopped being extraordinary.

He placed one hand on the uncle's shoulder, his other clasped around his pocket watch, and closed his eyes. Keeper's ticking seemed to grow louder, more insistent.

The uncle gasped, his eyes going distant.

"What do you see?" Mender asked softly.

"I... I see..." The uncle's voice cracked. "I see the boy when he first came to me. So small. So scared. His parents had just died and he had no one else."

"What did you feel?"

"I felt... responsible. I wanted to help him. I wanted to give him a home." The uncle's face twisted. "But then I heard him play. And I saw how people reacted. And I thought... I thought I could use that. Just a little. Just to make ends meet."

"And then?"

"And then it wasn't enough." The uncle's voice broke. "It was never enough. The more money he brought in, the more I wanted. I told myself I was doing it for him. For his future. But I was lying."

Tears streamed down the uncle's face now.

"I see him flinch when I raise my voice. I see the way he never smiles unless I tell him to. I see..." He choked. "I see what I've done to him."

Mender's hand tightened on his shoulder. "And what do you want to do now?"

The uncle looked at the boy—really looked at him—for the first time in years.

"I want to let him go," he whispered.

Mender released him, and the uncle staggered back, breathing hard.

The boy stood frozen, staring at his uncle with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"I'm sorry," the uncle said, his voice raw. "I'm so sorry. I... I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if I can."

"You can start," Mender said gently, "by giving him a choice."

The uncle nodded slowly. Then he turned to the boy.

"You don't have to stay with me," he said. "If you want to go—if you want to leave—I won't stop you."

The boy's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"I'll sign whatever papers are needed," the uncle continued. "I'll tell the authorities you're free. You can... you can go with them, if you want." He gestured toward the Troupe. "They'll take better care of you than I ever did."

The boy looked at Rosey. At Mender. At the others.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said: "I want to go."

The uncle nodded, tears still streaming. "Then go."

The boy took one hesitant step forward. Then another.

And then he was running—straight into Rosey's arms.

She caught him, holding him tight as he sobbed into her shoulder. "It's all right, dear. You're safe now. You're safe."

Mender turned back to the uncle. "You made the right choice."

"Did I?" The uncle's voice was hollow. "I destroyed that boy's childhood. How is that right?"

"You stopped," Mender said. "You saw the truth and you chose to change. That's more than most people do." He paused. "What will you do now?"

The uncle looked down at his hands. "I don't know. Try to be better, I suppose. Try to..." He shook his head. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

"Maybe not," Mender said. "But you can still choose to do better going forward. That's all any of us can do."

The uncle nodded slowly. Then he turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched.

Rosey watched him go, still holding the boy.

"Is he really gone?" the boy whispered.

"He's really gone," Rosey said gently. "You're free."

The boy pulled back, eyes bright with tears. "What happens now?"

Rosey smiled. "Now? Now you come with us. And we figure out the rest together."

 

Back at camp, the boy sat by the fire, wrapped in one of Rosey's blankets.

He'd stopped crying, but he still looked dazed. Like he couldn't quite believe what had happened.

Vigil brought him warm milk. North offered him a sugar cookie. Forge grumbled something about "making sure the wagon has enough space" but Rosey saw him reinforcing the sleeping area.

Mender sat down beside the boy. "You played beautifully tonight. That song—the one you chose—where did it come from?"

The boy looked down at his hands. "I don't know. I've been hearing it in my head for months. But I was never allowed to play it."

"It was yours," Mender said. "Your song. Your magic. And it was extraordinary."

The boy's lip trembled. "He's going to be so angry when he realizes—"

"He signed the papers," Mender said gently. "You're legally free. He can't take you back."

"But what if he changes his mind? What if—"

"Then we'll deal with it," Rosey said firmly, sitting down on the boy's other side. "But you're not going back to that life. Not ever."

The boy looked between them, something fragile and hopeful flickering in his eyes. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because that's what we do," Rosey said simply. "We help people who need it."

Mender pulled out Keeper, looking down at the watch as if he were remembering. "And because everyone deserves a chance to start over. To choose who they want to be." He paused. "Speaking of which—you need a name. A real one. One that's yours."

The boy blinked. "A name?"

"Your uncle called you 'boy,'" Mender said. "But you're not his anymore. And if anyone comes looking—if anyone asks questions—you need a name that isn't tied to your past. A name that protects you. One that's yours. Gives you a fresh start. Leaving behind what hurt you and helping you become someone new."

The boy stared at the fire, processing this.

Mender was quiet for a moment, then said: "What about Lyric?"

The boy looked up.

"It honors your gift," Mender continued. "Your music. But it's not the name your uncle used. It's not tied to those performances or that pain. It's... yours. If you want it."

The boy tested out the sound of it.

"Lyric," he said.

Then, slowly, he smiled. A real smile. Small and tentative, but real.

"Lyric," he said again. "Yes. I want it."

"Then Lyric it is," Mender said, and Rosey saw the familiar look in his eyes—the one he got when he'd helped someone find their way.

Rosey reached over and squeezed the boy's—Lyric's—hand. "Welcome to the family, Lyric."

And for the first time in years, Lyric felt something he'd almost forgotten.

Hope.

 

FINDING JOY

 

Lyric woke to the smell of fresh bread and honey.

For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. Then it came back in a rush—the performance, the rebellion, his uncle's face, Mender's hand on his shoulder, the papers being signed.

You're free.

He sat up slowly, his heart pounding. The wagon was quiet except for the soft sounds of morning—birds singing, the crackle of a fire, someone humming.

He was in a small sleeping nook that Forge had built into the side of the wagon. It was cozy, with blankets that smelled like lavender and a small window that let in the early light.

Safe.

He'd never had safe before, atleast not for as long as he could remember.

Lyric climbed out carefully and made his way to the fire, where Rosey was cooking breakfast.

She looked up and smiled. "Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Hungry?"

Another nod.

She handed him a plate piled with eggs, bread, and berries. "Eat up. We've got a long day of travel ahead."

Lyric took the plate and sat down, eating slowly. The food was warm and good, and no one told him to hurry. No one told him he had to earn it.

He just... ate.

Rosey hummed as she worked, and Lyric found himself truly relaxing.

 

Three days later, the Troupe had left the musical town far behind and was traveling through open countryside. Lyric sat in the back of the wagon, watching the landscape roll by.

He still had his flute. His uncle had let him keep it—one of the few kind things the man had ever done.

Lyric turned it over in his hands, feeling the familiar weight of it.

He wanted to play. But every time he lifted it to his lips, he heard his uncle's voice: Play this. Not that. Faster. Slower. Make them cry. Make them pay.

He lowered the flute again.

"Lyric?"

He looked up. Mender was sitting nearby, his pocket watch resting in his palm.

"You don't have to play if you don't want to," Mender said gently.

"I want to," Lyric said, his voice small. "But every time I try, I hear him. Telling me what to do. How to do it."

Mender nodded. "That's going to take time to fade. He controlled your music for a long time. It makes sense that his voice is still there."

Lyric looked down at the flute. "What if it never goes away?"

"It will," Mender said. "But you have to give yourself permission to play badly first."

Lyric blinked. "What?"

"Right now, you're afraid that if you play, it has to be perfect. Because that's what he demanded. But music isn't about perfection. It's about expression. Joy. Connection." Mender smiled. "So play badly. Play a song that makes no sense. Play the wrong notes. Play whatever you want, however you want, and don't worry about whether it's good."

Lyric stared at him. "Really?"

"Really."

Lyric lifted the flute slowly. His hands were shaking.

He played a single note. It wobbled, uncertain.

Then another. And another.

They didn't form a melody. They didn't make sense. But they were his.

And for the first time, no one told him to stop.

 

A week had passed, and Lyric played every day now. Sometimes just a few notes. Sometimes a full song. And slowly, his uncle's voice began to fade.

One evening, as the Troupe set up camp, Lyric sat by the fire and played a melody he'd been working on. It was simple and sweet, with just a hint of his magic woven through it.

North looked up from her maps, smiling. "Tha's lovely, Lyric."

He flushed, pleased. "Thank you."

"Play it again?" Forge asked gruffly. "I liked it."

Lyric's eyes widened. Then he played it again, and this time he added a little flourish at the end.

Rosey clapped. "Beautiful, dear!"

Vigil, tending the Trotters, hummed along. "Vigil approves. The creatures are calm when Lyric plays."

Lyric looked around at all of them—these people who had taken him in, fed him, protected him, and never once asked him to perform for profit.

And he smiled.

A real smile.

Two weeks later the Troupe was  performing in a small village, and for the first time, Lyric joined them on stage.

He was terrified. His hands shook as he lifted the flute.

But then Rosey started singing, and North began juggling, and Forge played a drum, and Mender told a story that made the crowd laugh.

And Lyric realized: this wasn't a performance.

This was play.

He started with a soft melody, weaving it through Rosey's song. The magic in his music responded, gentle and warm, and the crowd swayed.

But no one demanded more. No one threw coins and shouted for encores.

They just... listened.

And when the song ended, they clapped and smiled and thanked the Troupe for a lovely evening.

Lyric stepped off the stage, breathless and grinning.

"That was amazing!" he said.

Rosey laughed and ruffled his hair. "You were amazing, dear."

"Vigil agrees," Vigil said. "Lyric's magic is beautiful when it is free."

Mender smiled. "How did it feel?"

Lyric thought about it. "It felt... right. Like my music was mine again."

"Good," Mender said. "Because it is."

 

A month had passed now, and Lyric had become part of the Troupe's rhythm. He helped Rosey cook, learned knot-tying from Forge, studied maps with North, and tended the Trotters with Vigil.

And he played. Every day. Sometimes for the troupe, sometimes for himself, sometimes for the birds and the trees and the sky.

His magic had grown stronger, more vibrant. But now it was joyful. Playful. His.

One evening, as they sat around the fire, Lyric played a new song—one he'd written himself. It was bright and hopeful, full of wonder and gratitude.

When he finished, Rosey had tears in her eyes.

"That was beautiful, Lyric," she said softly.

"It's about all of you," Lyric said shyly. "About finding a family. About being free."

Mender reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "You've come a long way."

Lyric looked around at the faces of the people who had saved him. Who had given him a name, a home, a future.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."

"You're welcome, dear," Rosey said, pulling him into a hug. "You're one of us now. And we take care of our own."

Lyric buried his face in her shoulder and let himself cry—not from sadness this time, but from relief.

From joy.

From home.

 

Three months after leaving the musical town, the troupe rolled into a new town, and Lyric sat up front with North, chattering excitedly about the landscape.

"Do you think they'll have a festival?" he asked.

"Maybe, sugar," North said, grinning. "You hopin' to perform?"

"Yes!" Lyric said, then paused. "Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay," Rosey called from the back. "You can play whenever you want. Or not at all. It's always your choice."

Lyric beamed.

He was still healing. There were still moments when his uncle's voice crept back in, when he hesitated before playing, when he wondered if he was doing it "right."

But those moments were fewer now.

And he had a family to remind him: there was no "right" way to make music.

There was only his way.

And that was enough.

 

The Troupe rolled through the countryside, and Lyric sat up front with North, chattering excitedly about a song he was working on.

"It has three different melodies that weave together," he explained, his hands moving as he talked. "And I think if I add just a little bit of magic to the second verse—"

"Sounds ambitious, sugar," North said, grinning.

"I know!" Lyric said, beaming. "Isn't it great?"

Rosey watched from the back of the wagon, her heart full.

This was the boy she'd hoped to see—bright, enthusiastic, free. The forced smile was gone, replaced by genuine joy. The fear in his eyes had faded, replaced by wonder.

He played constantly now. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to. His music filled their days with beauty and magic, and no one ever asked him to stop or change or to perform differently.

He was just... Lyric.

And he was happy.

That evening, as they made camp, Lyric played his new song for the Troupe. It was ambitious and a little messy, with the three melodies tangling together in places, but it was full of life and creativity.

When he finished, slightly breathless, he looked around nervously. "What do you think? Is it too much?"

"It's wonderful," Rosey said warmly.

"Vigil enjoyed the complexity," Vigil added. "The Trotters swayed to the rhythm."

Forge grunted. "Not bad, kid. Keep working on it."

Lyric's face lit up. "I will!"

He tucked his flute away and helped Rosey prepare dinner, humming the melody under his breath.

Later, as the fire burned low and the stars came out, Lyric sat between Rosey and Mender, content and sleepy.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For saving me. For giving me this."

Rosey wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "You saved yourself, dear. You chose to play your own song that night. You chose to be brave."

"We just gave you a safe place to land," Mender added.

Lyric leaned against Rosey's side. "I'm glad I found you."

"We're glad too," Rosey said, kissing the top of his head.

And as Lyric drifted off to sleep by the fire, surrounded by the family who loved him, Rosey looked up at the stars and felt grateful.

One lost soul found.

One child saved.

One musician set free.

 

THE GIFT

 

Lyric didn't expect anyone to remember.

He'd mentioned it once, weeks ago, in passing. Rosey had asked when his birthday was, and he'd told her the date without thinking much of it. His uncle had never celebrated it—birthdays were a waste of time and money, he'd said—so Lyric had learned not to expect anything.

But when he woke on the morning of his twelfth birthday, the smell of cinnamon and sugar filled the air.

He climbed out of his sleeping nook and found Rosey at the fire, pulling something golden and fragrant from a small camp oven.

"Good morning, birthday boy," she said, beaming.

Lyric froze. "You... you remembered?"

"Of course I remembered, dear." She set the pastry on a plate and dusted it with sugar. "Now come here and have some birthday cake."

"That's cake?" Lyric asked, eyes wide.

"Close enough," Rosey said, laughing. "It's a honey cake. Your favorite, if I recall."

Lyric had mentioned that once too. Months ago. He couldn't believe she'd remembered.

He sat down, and Rosey handed him the plate. The cake was warm and sweet, and Lyric thought it might be the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Rosey kissed the top of his head. "You're welcome, dear. Now eat up. We have a big day planned."

 

The "big day" turned out to be a festival.

Well, not a real festival. But the Troupe had declared it Lyric's Day, and they were treating it like one.

North had planned a route to a nearby meadow—"Perfect for a picnic, sugar"—and Vigil had decorated the wagon with ribbons and wildflowers.

"Vigil believes birthdays should be colorful," they said solemnly.

Forge grumbled about the detour but had packed extra supplies without being asked.

And Mender walked beside Lyric, Keeper glowing softly in the sunshine, as the watch rested in his hand.

"How does it feel?" Mender asked. "Being twelve?"

Lyric thought about it. "The same as eleven. But... happier."

Mender smiled. "Good."

The meadow was beautiful—rolling green hills dotted with flowers, a clear stream running through the center, and a sky so blue it hurt to look at.

The troupe set up camp quickly, and Rosey laid out a feast: bread and cheese, roasted vegetables, fresh fruit, and more honey cake.

Lyric ate until he thought he might burst, laughing as North told exaggerated stories about her navigation mishaps and Forge pretended to be annoyed.

After lunch, Vigil brought out the Trotters and let Lyric ride one around the meadow. The great striped creature was gentle and patient, and Lyric felt like he was flying.

 

When the sun began to set, the troupe gathered around the fire.

"We have something for you," Rosey said, her eyes twinkling.

Lyric looked up, confused. "You already gave me cake. And the picnic. And—"

"This is different," Mender said. He nodded to Forge.

Forge stood, grumbling under his breath, and disappeared into the wagon.

When he returned, he was carrying something wrapped in cloth.

"Here," Forge said gruffly, thrusting it at Lyric. "Don't drop it."

Lyric took it carefully. It was heavier than he expected, and shaped like...

He unwrapped the cloth slowly.

And gasped.

It was a lute.

Beautiful, polished, perfectly crafted. The wood was a warm honey color, and the strings gleamed in the firelight. Carved into the side, in elegant script, was a single word:

'Lyric'

"You... you made this?" Lyric whispered, looking up at Forge.

Forge shifted uncomfortably. "We all did. Sort of."

"Forge built it," North explained, grinning. "But I found the wood—imported from three towns over. Best quality."

"Vigil provided the strings," Vigil added. "Woven from the Trotters' mane hair. Very strong. Very musical."

"I carved your name," Rosey said softly. "So you'd always know it's yours."

Mender stepped forward. "And I added this." He pointed to a small brass plate on the back of the lute, engraved with a single phrase:

'Play with joy.'

Lyric stared at the lute, his vision blurring with tears.

"You... you all did this? For me?"

"Of course we did, dear," Rosey said, pulling him into a hug. "You're family."

Lyric buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed—great, heaving sobs that shook his whole body.

But they weren't sad tears.

They were the kind of tears that came from being loved so completely that your heart couldn't hold it all.

When he finally pulled back, wiping his eyes, he looked down at the lute again.

"I don't know how to play it yet," he said, his voice thick.

"Then we'll teach you," Mender said. "Or you'll teach yourself. Either way, it's yours. No pressure. No expectations. Just... joy."

Lyric ran his fingers over the strings, and they hummed softly under his touch.

The sound was warm and rich, and even without knowing how to play, Lyric could feel the potential in it.

"Thank you," he whispered. "All of you. This is... this is the best birthday I've ever had."

"Good," Forge said gruffly. "Now stop crying and play us something."

Lyric laughed, wiping his eyes again. "I don't know how yet!"

"Then play badly," Mender said, echoing his own advice from weeks ago. "We won't mind."

So Lyric did.

He plucked at the strings clumsily, creating a melody that was more noise than music. But he was smiling the whole time, and his magic wove through the sound, turning it into something almost beautiful.

The troupe clapped and cheered, and Lyric felt his heart swell.

This was what family felt like.

This was what love felt like.

And he would never, ever take it for granted.

 

Over the next few weeks Lyric practiced the lute every day.

At first, his fingers fumbled over the strings, and the chords came out clumsy and discordant. But he didn't give up.

North showed him a few basic chords she'd learned as a child. Forge helped him tune the strings. Vigil sat with him in the evenings, humming along as he practiced.

And slowly, steadily, Lyric learned.

The lute became an extension of himself, just like the flute had been. But where the flute carried the weight of his past, the lute felt light and free.

It was his. Truly his.

By the time a month had passed, Lyric could play simple songs on the lute, weaving his magic through the strings to create melodies that made people smile. He sang along to the tune, his voice an instrument in it's own right.

He still played his flute too—it would always be part of him—but the lute had become his favorite. (Don't tell the flute. Jealous instruments don't play well.)

Because every time he played it, he remembered:

He was loved.

He was free.

He was home.

Weeks had passed, and the Troupe was headed towards a new town. Lyric sat in the back of the wagon, strumming his lute and humming contentedly.

Rosey watched him with a smile, her heart full.

But as the town came into view, she felt that familiar prickle again—the sense that something here wasn't quite right.

The streets were too quiet. The people moved with their heads down, their shoulders hunched.

Fear.

Rosey had seen it before.

She glanced at Mender, and he nodded. He felt it too.

"What is it?" Lyric asked, looking up from his lute.

"I'm not sure yet, dear," Rosey said. "But I think someone here needs help."

Lyric's expression grew serious. "Then we'll help them. Right?"

Rosey smiled. "Right."

And as the wagon rolled into the quiet, fearful town, Lyric began to play his lute softly—a gentle, hopeful melody that drifted through the streets like a promise.

We're here. You're not alone.

 

THE STARLIGHT GIRL

 

The town was afraid.

Rosey felt it the moment they arrived—a heaviness in the air, a tension that made her shoulders tight. People moved quickly through the streets, eyes down, voices low. Shop doors were closed even though it was midday. Children didn't play in the square.

This was a town under someone's thumb.

"Gang territory," North muttered, studying the streets with narrowed eyes. "I've seen it before. Someone's runnin' protection rackets, or worse."

Forge grunted. "Should we keep moving?"

"No," Mender said quietly. He was standing at the front of the wagon, Keeper in hand. The pocket watch had started ticking again. "Someone here needs help."

Rosey nodded. She'd known he would say that.

Lyric looked around, his lute clutched to his chest, his blond hair catching the afternoon light. "It's so quiet," he said softly. "Even the music feels... scared."

He was right. There were street musicians here—Rosey could see them on corners—but their songs were muted, careful. Nothing that would draw too much attention.

"Let's set up camp," Rosey said. "Carefully. We don't want to cause trouble, but we don't want to hide either."

North found them a spot near the market square—visible but not intrusive. Vigil unhitched the Trotters and began tending them quietly. Forge reinforced the wagon without his usual grumbling.

And Lyric sat on the steps of the wagon, his lute in his lap, watching the town with worried eyes.

"Can I play?" he asked Rosey.

She hesitated, then nodded. "Softly, dear. Let them come to us."

So Lyric began to play.

It was a gentle melody, warm and inviting. His magic wove through it like golden thread, and slowly—very slowly—people began to glance their way.

A woman paused at a nearby stall, listening.

A child tugged on his mother's sleeve, pointing.

An old man stopped walking and closed his eyes, a small smile crossing his face.

The music wasn't loud. It wasn't demanding.

It was simply... there. A quiet promise of something better.

And Rosey watched as the town began to breathe just a little easier.

And the troupe began to do what they did best.

They helped.

 

Over the next few days Mender moved through the town like a quiet storm, finding people who needed him.

An old woman whose memories of her late husband had become tangled with grief—Mender sat with her for an hour, and when he left, she was smiling through her tears, remembering the joy instead of just the loss.

A young man who couldn't remember why he'd stopped painting—Mender showed him the truth buried beneath years of self-doubt, and the next day, Rosey saw him at an easel in the square, colors bright against the gray town.

A shopkeeper whose trauma from the gang's violence had left him paralyzed with fear—Mender helped him separate the past from the present, gave him back his courage.

Word spread quietly: The Memory Mender can help.

 

Forge grumbled his way through the town, but his hands were never idle.

A family's roof had collapsed during a storm—Forge spent two days rebuilding it, muttering about "shoddy construction" the entire time, but refusing payment.

A widow's front steps were rotting—Forge replaced them before she even asked.

A young couple's wagon wheel had broken—Forge fixed it and reinforced the axle "so it won't happen again, for heaven's sake." 

 

Peoplebegan leaving small gifts at the Troupe's camp: bread, flowers, hand-carved trinkets. Tokens of gratitude.

 

Rosey fed anyone who came to her fire.

A family with three children who hadn't had a full meal in weeks—she made sure they left with full bellies and extra bread wrapped in cloth.

An elderly man who lived alone—she invited him to eat with them every evening, and he told stories that made Lyric laugh.

A young mother with a baby—Rosey showed her how to make the most of meager supplies, stretching ingredients into nourishing meals.

Her fire became a gathering place. A safe place.

 

North helped people navigate more than just roads.

She sat with a merchant who'd lost his trade route to the gang's interference and helped him map a new one—safer, longer, but viable.

She taught a group of children how to read maps and find their way home if they ever got lost.

She organized the market vendors into a cooperative system so they could support each other when the gang demanded "protection money."

Quiet resistance. Practical hope.

 

Vigil tended not just the Trotters, but any creature that needed care.

A farmer's ox had gone lame—Vigil spent hours with it, patient and gentle, until it could walk again.

A child's pet rabbit had been injured—Vigil bandaged it carefully and showed the child how to care for it.

Stray dogs and cats began following Vigil through the streets, drawn to their calm presence.

"Vigil believes all creatures deserve kindness," they said simply.

 

And Lyric played.

Every evening, he sat on the steps of the wagon with his lute, singing songs that made the town feel lighter. His magic wove through the melodies, and for a little while, people forgot to be afraid.

Children gathered to listen. Adults paused on their way home. Even the street musicians began to play a little louder, a little brighter.

Lyric's music became a heartbeat for the town—steady, hopeful, alive.

 

Their second evening in town, Lyric had wandered to the far side of the market to help an elderly woman carry her groceries home. He was walking back, humming to himself, when he heard raised voices near the camp.

He quickened his pace, his heart pounding.

By the time he arrived, a small crowd had gathered—but they were standing back, frightened.

Three men in dark clothes stood in front of Rosey's fire. The leader—a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his jaw—was speaking, and his tone made Lyric's stomach turn.

"—don't appreciate competition," the man was saying.

Lyric slipped through the crowd, staying out of sight but close enough to hear.

Rosey stood by the fire, her expression calm but her hands clenched. Forge was beside her, his jaw tight. Mender had appeared from the wagon with his pocket watch in hand. Lyric knew that he held that watch when moments were tense.

"We're not competing with anyone," Mender said quietly. "We're just offering kindness."

The scarred man laughed. "Kindness doesn't pay rent. Kindness doesn't keep people safe. We keep people safe. And they pay us for it."

By threatenin' 'em?" North said, her Southern drawl sharp. "That's not protection, sugar. That's extortion."

The man's hand moved to the knife at his belt.

Vigil stepped forward, their goat-eyes unblinking, their voice calm. "Vigil suggests you leave. Now."

The Trotters, sensing Vigil's tension, stamped their hooves and snorted. Their massive striped bodies shifted, and suddenly the three gang members looked a lot less confident.

The scarred man glared at them. "You've got three days. Three days to pack up and leave. If you're still here after that..." He smiled coldly. "Well. Accidents happen to people who don't know their place."

He turned and walked away, his companions following.

The crowd that had scattered began to creep back, but they looked more frightened than before.

Lyric's hands were shaking. He clutched his lute tighter and stepped forward.

Rosey saw him and her expression softened. "It's all right, dear. We're fine."

But Lyric could see the tension in her shoulders. The worry in Mender's eyes.

They weren't fine.

None of them were.

That night, around the fire:

The troupe sat in a tight circle, voices low.

"We should go," Forge said bluntly. "Before this gets worse."

"We can't," Lyric said, his voice small but firm. "There are people here who need help. Like I needed help."

"The boy's right," North said. "But we need to be smart 'bout this. The gang's watchin' us now."

Let them watch," Mender said. "We'll keep doing what we came to do. Carefully. But we won't stop."

Rosey nodded. "Agreed. But everyone stays alert. No one goes anywhere alone."

Vigil's hand rested on one of the Trotters. "Vigil will keep watch at night."

"And I'll make sure our camp is secure," Forge muttered. "If they want trouble, they'll have to work for it."

Lyric clutched his lute, his expression worried but determined. "I'll keep playing. People need the music. They need to remember there's still good here."

Mender looked around at his family—brave, stubborn, loyal.

"Three days," he said quietly. "We have three days to help as many people as we can. And to figure out how to stop this gang from destroying this town."

Keeper pulsed softly in his palm.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Time was running out.

 

The next morning Mender was approached by a man named Marcus.

He was thin and tired-looking, with worry lines etched deep around his eyes. But there was something gentle about him—a quiet strength.

"I heard you can help with memories," Marcus said.

"I can," Mender said. "What do you need?"

Marcus hesitated, glancing around as if checking for listeners. "I... I have nightmares. About the gang. About what they've threatened to do to my family. I can't sleep. Can't think. I'm so afraid all the time that I can't protect the people I love."

Mender gestured to the fire. "Sit with me."

They sat, and Mender placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

"What do you see?" Mender asked softly.

"I see... I see my daughter," Marcus said, his voice breaking. "I see her smile. Her light. The way she used to dance when she was happy."

"And now?"

Now she's empty. The fear has taken everything from her. From all of us." Marcus's hands shook. "I saw what happened last night. I saw those men threaten you. And I saw you stand your ground."

Mender was quiet, listening.

"Most people run," Marcus continued. "Or they bow down. But you didn't. You stayed. Even knowing what they could do." He looked at Mender with desperate eyes. "That's why I'm here. Because I think... I think maybe you can help us too."

"Tell me," Mender said gently.

And Marcus told him everything. About his daughter's gift. About the gang leader's demand. About the three days they had left.

When he finished, Mender was silent for a long moment.

"The nightmares are your mind trying to prepare you for the worst," Mender said finally. "But they're stealing your ability to fight for the best. Let me help you separate the fear from the truth. Let me help you remember your strength."

Marcus gasped softly as the memories shifted—the nightmares fading, the truth becoming clearer.

When Mender released him, Marcus was crying—but his shoulders were straighter. His breathing was steadier.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome," Mender said. "And Marcus? If your family needs more help—if you need us to do more than just ease your nightmares—come find me. Bring your wife. Bring your daughter. We'll talk."

Marcus nodded, hope flickering in his eyes for the first time in weeks.

 

That afternoon Lyric was restless.

The gang's threat hung over the camp like a storm cloud. The town's tension was wearing on him—the fear, the careful silence, the way people looked over their shoulders.

He needed space. Quiet. Somewhere he could play without worrying about drawing the wrong kind of attention.

"I'm going for a walk," he told Rosey, heading towards the forest outside of town.

Stay close," she said, worry creasing her brow. "And take your lute."

He always took his lute.

Lyric wandered to the outskirts of town, where the buildings gave way to trees. The woods were quiet and cool, dappled with afternoon light.

He found a small clearing and sat down on a fallen log, pulling his lute into his lap.

And he began to play.

The melody was soft and wandering, matching the dappled light and the rustling leaves. His magic wove through it, turning the clearing into something almost sacred.

He closed his eyes, letting the music carry him away from the fear, away from the threats, away from everything except this moment.

And then he heard something.

A soft sound—like wind chimes, or bells, or starlight given voice.

Lyric opened his eyes.

And saw her.

She was standing at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by trees.

A girl about his age, with hair the color of moonlight—pale silver that seemed to glow in the shadows. She wore a simple dress, and her feet were bare.

But it was her hands that made Lyric's breath catch.

Light.

She was holding light.

It pooled in her palms like water, shimmering and soft. As Lyric played, the light began to move—swirling, dancing, forming shapes in the air.

A bird. A flower. A ribbon of stars.

The girl swayed gently, her eyes half-closed, completely lost in the moment.

She didn't seem to realize what she was doing.

Lyric kept playing, mesmerized.

His music and her light moved together, perfectly synchronized, as if they'd been doing this for years.

The melody shifted, and the light responded—brightening, dimming, spinning faster, slowing down.

It was the most beautiful thing Lyric had ever seen.

He played for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, watching her dance with the light, watching her magic respond to his music without her even knowing.

And then the song ended.

The light faded.

The girl blinked, as if waking from a dream. She looked down at her hands, then around the clearing, then at Lyric. Her eyes widened.

"Oh," she said softly. "There was music."

Lyric stared at her. "You... you didn't notice?"

She looked confused. "I noticed. But I didn't... I wasn't..." She trailed off, frowning. "I was dancing?"

You were," Lyric said, smiling. "And making light. It was beautiful."

The girl looked down at her hands again, as if surprised to find them empty. "I don't remember starting."

"You just... did," Lyric said. "When I played, your light- it was like it was listening."

The girl tilted her head, considering this. "That's never happened before."

"Really?"

"I usually have to think about it. Focus. But just now, I was..." She paused, searching for the word. "Somewhere else."

Where?"

She smiled faintly. "I don't know. Somewhere quiet."

Lyric understood that. Sometimes when he played, he went somewhere quiet too.

"I'm Lyric," he said.

The girl hesitated. "Star," she said finally. "My parents call me Star."

"That fits," Lyric said, gesturing to the fading shimmer in the air. "Your light looks like starlight."

Star looked at the space where the light had been, and for the first time, something flickered in her eyes.

Not quite joy. But not quite emptiness either.

Something in between.

"Will you play again?" she asked quietly.

Lyric's face lit up—the first real smile he'd worn in days. "Yes! I mean—of course. I'd love to."

And he did.

They stayed in the clearing until the sun began to set, Lyric playing and Star dancing with light she didn't consciously control. Neither of them spoke much. They didn't need to.

The music and the light said everything.

When the shadows grew long, Star blinked and looked around, as if suddenly remembering where she was.

"I should go," she said. "My parents will worry."

"Will I see you again?" Lyric asked, and there was hope in his voice—fragile but real.

Star looked at him, and for a moment, something almost like hope crossed her face too.

"Maybe," she said.

And then she was gone, disappearing into the trees like a dream.

Lyric sat in the clearing for a long time after, his lute in his lap, wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing.

But the faint shimmer of light still lingering in the air told him it had been real.

Lyric returned to camp just as the sun was setting, his lute slung over his shoulder and a strange, wondering look on his face.

"Where have you been?" Rosey asked, relief flooding her features.

"The woods," Lyric said, and there was something different in his voice—something lighter. "I met someone."

"Oh?"

"A girl. She has magic too. Light magic." He sat down by the fire, his eyes bright with wonder. "Rosey, when I played, her light danced. Like it was part of the music. Like we were making something together!"

He gestured excitedly, nearly knocking over his lute. "And she didn't even realize she was doing it! She was just... somewhere else. And then the music ended and she woke up and looked so surprised—"

He stopped, suddenly self-conscious, but he was smiling. Really smiling.

Rosey's heart warmed. She hadn't seen him this animated since before they'd rescued him.

"That sounds beautiful, dear," she said gently.

"It was," Lyric said, his voice softening. "It really was."

Rosey exchanged a glance with Mender.

A girl with light magic.

Could it be the same girl Marcus had told them about?

"Did she seem... happy?" Rosey asked carefully.

Lyric thought about it. "No. Not happy. But... It was like the music woke her up a little. Like she was somewhere else most of the time, but the music brought her back."

Rosey nodded slowly. "That's good, dear. That's very good."

Mender was quiet, staring into the fire, Keeper glowing softly in the firelight.

"What is it?" Rosey asked.

"Marcus is going to come back," Mender said quietly. "Tomorrow, I think. With his wife. And with Star."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's run out of options. And because..." Mender looked at Lyric. "Because his daughter just came alive for the first time in weeks. And he's going to want to know why."

 

The next morning Elena and Marcus arrived at the camp. The colors of dawn painted the sky. Star trailed behind them like a ghost.

But when she saw Lyric sitting by the fire with his lute, something changed in her expression.

Recognition. And the faintest hint of a smile.

Rosey had tea ready and a quiet fire burning. Mender joined them, the pocket watch resting in his palm.

The couple sat close together, holding hands. Star sat apart, but Rosey noticed the way her gaze kept drifting to Lyric's lute, propped against the wagon.

Thank you for seeing us," Elena said.

"Of course," Rosey said warmly. "Marcus, it's good to see you again."

Marcus nodded. "You helped me. More than you know. And now... now I'm hoping you can help my family."

Elena took a shaky breath. "We don't have much time. The gang leader—he wants our daughter. He wants to use her gift. We have until tomorrow to hand her over, or..." Her voice broke.

"Or he'll take her by force," Marcus finished. "And punish us for refusing."

Rosey's chest tightened.

We can't protect her," Marcus said, his voice cracking. "But maybe you can. We've been watching you. We saw you stand up to the gang. We saw how you care for people. Please look after our Star?"

"You want us to take your daughter?" Rosey asked gently.

"We want you to save her," Elena whispered, tears streaming down her face.

Mender spoke, his voice steady. "Let me talk to the gang leader first."

Both parents stared at him.

"What?" Marcus said.

"Let me try to fix this," Mender said. "So your family doesn't have to be broken."

"You can't," Elena said, shaking her head. "He's too cruel. Too far gone."

"He's not going to change," Marcus added. "He's been this way for years. Hurting people, taking what he wants. No one can stop him."

Mender looked at Star—really looked at her—and saw the emptiness in her eyes.

But he also saw the way she kept glancing at Lyric. The way the faintest shimmer of light played around her fingertips when she looked at his lute.

"Maybe," Mender said quietly. "But I have to try. Because someone once gave me a chance when it seemed impossible. And it changed everything." He stood."I'll go today. And if I can't change his mind..." He looked at Rosey. "Then we'll take Star with us. And we'll keep her safe. I promise."

Elena sobbed, and Marcus pulled her close.

Star said nothing. Just stared at Mender with those distant, empty eyes.

But her fingers trembled, and the faintest thread of light wound between them.

Hoping.

 

THE CONFRONTATION

 

Mender left at dawn.

Rosey walked beside him, her hand occasionally brushing his arm—a silent reminder that he wasn't alone.

Keeper rested firmly in Mender's palm, ticking steadily. The old watch seemed to sense the weight of what was coming.

"Are you sure about this?" Rosey asked quietly as they made their way through the still-sleeping town.

"No," Mender said. "But I have to try."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Then we take Star and we run. Fast." He glanced at her. "You didn't have to come."

"Yes, I did," Rosey said firmly. "You're not doing this alone."

Mender's expression softened. "Thank you."

 

They walked in silence for a while, following the directions Marcus had given them. The gang leader's headquarters was on the edge of town—a large building that had once been a warehouse, now fortified and guarded.

Two men stood at the entrance, arms crossed, expressions hard.

"We're here to see your leader," Mender said calmly.

The guards looked at each other, then at Mender and Rosey.

"He doesn't take visitors," one said.

"He'll take this one," Mender said. "Tell him the memory mender wants to talk."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "The one who's been causing trouble?"

"The one who's been helping people," Rosey corrected. "There's a difference."

The guards exchanged another look. Then one disappeared inside.

Rosey and Mender waited.

Keeper's ticking seemed louder in the silence.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Finally, the guard returned. "He'll see you. But if you try anything—"

"We're not here to fight," Mender said. "Just to talk."

The guards led them inside.

The warehouse was dim and cold, lit by scattered lanterns. Men lounged around tables, playing cards, sharpening weapons, counting money.

All of them stopped and stared as Mender and Rosey passed.

At the far end of the warehouse, on a raised platform, sat the gang leader.

Rosey recognized him immediately—the broad-shouldered man with the scar across his jaw who had threatened them two nights ago. He lounged in a chair that was almost a throne, watching them approach with an expression of amused contempt.

"Well, well," he said. "The traveling do-gooders. I told you to leave town."

"We're still here," Mender said evenly.

The gang leader's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I can see that. Brave. Or stupid. I haven't decided which."

"Neither," Mender said. "Just determined."

"Determined to what? Get yourselves killed?" The gang leader leaned forward. "You've got one day left. One day to pack up and get out. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to offer you something," Mender said quietly.

The gang leader laughed. "You're here to offer me something? That's rich. What could you possibly have that I want?"

"A chance to see the truth," Mender said. "To understand what you've become. And to choose whether you want to stay that way."

The gang leader's expression darkened. "I know exactly what I am. And I don't need some traveling con artist to tell me otherwise."

"I'm not here to tell you anything," Mender said. "I'm here to show you. Your own memories. Your own truth. And then you can decide—truly decide—what kind of man you want to be."

The gang leader stared at him for a long moment.

Then he laughed again, but this time it sounded forced.

"You think you can change me with some memory trick? I know what I've done. I know who I am. And I like it."

"Do you?" Mender asked. "Or have you just told yourself that so many times you believe it?"

The gang leader's jaw tightened, and his hand moved to the scar on his face—an unconscious gesture.

Rosey stepped forward slightly, her voice gentle but firm. "What do you have to lose? If you're so certain of who you are, then looking at the truth won't change anything. But if you're wrong..." She paused. "Don't you want to know?"

The gang leader looked at her, then at Mender, then at Keeper glowing in Mender's palm.

His expression shifted—something flickered beneath the cold mask. Fear, maybe. Or curiosity.

"Fine," he said finally. "Show me. And when it doesn't work, you leave this town and never come back. Deal?"

"Deal," Mender said.

The gang leader stood and descended from the platform. "But we do this alone. Just you and me. She stays here." He nodded toward Rosey.

"No," Mender said firmly. "She comes with me. Or we don't do this at all."

The gang leader's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because I don't work alone," Mender said simply.

The gang leader studied them both for a long moment.

Then he shrugged. "Fine. But if either of you tries anything—"

"We won't," Rosey said.

The gang leader led them to a small room off the main warehouse floor—an office of sorts, with a desk, a few chairs, and a single window.

He closed the door behind them and sat down heavily.

"All right," he said. "Do your worst."

Mender stepped forward, still clutching his watch. "This won't hurt. But it will be... difficult. You'll see things you've buried. Feel things you've tried to forget."

"I'm not afraid," the gang leader said.

But Rosey saw the way his hands gripped the arms of the chair.

He was terrified.

Mender placed his hand on the gang leader's shoulder and closed his eyes.

The room went quiet except for the steady tick of Keeper in Mender's other hand.

The gang leader's eyes went distant, unfocused.

And then Rosey felt it.

A pull—like a current drawing her in, gentle but insistent. She gasped softly, her hand gripping the edge of the desk.

Mender's concentration was so deep, so intense, that she could sense the edges of what he was seeing.

Flashes of memory. Fragments of feeling.

A young boy with a fresh scar across his jaw, crying in a dark room.

A man's voice, cruel and mocking: 'You're worthless. You'll never be anything. Look at you—weak, pathetic. No wonder your mother left.'

The boy trying to be small, trying to disappear, but the man always found him.

Fists. Pain. The metallic taste of blood.

'You want to survive? You learn to be strong. You learn to take before someone takes from you.'

Rosey's chest tightened. The pain was overwhelming—not hers, but she felt it. Sharp and raw and suffocating.

The boy growing older. Harder. Building walls around his heart, brick by brick.

The first time he fought back. The sick satisfaction of seeing fear in someone else's eyes instead of his own.

"That's it. That's how you survive."

The first time he hurt someone weaker than him. The way it made him feel powerful. The way it drowned out the voice that still whispered: You're worthless.

Years of violence. Years of taking. Years of controlling others because he couldn't control the pain inside himself.

People flinching when he walked by. The fear in their eyes.

He told himself it was respect.

But deep down—buried so deep he'd forgotten it was there—he knew the truth.

It was the same fear he'd seen in the mirror as a child.

And beneath it all, still there, still crying in that dark room:

A small, terrified boy who just wanted to be loved.

Rosey gasped, tears streaming down her face. Her hand flew to her chest, trying to breathe through the weight of it.

The memories weren't hers. But she felt them. The pain. The fear. The twisted logic that had turned a hurt child into a cruel man.

And she understood—truly understood—what Mender walked into every time he did this work.

Mender's voice was soft, steady. "What do you see?"

The gang leader's voice cracked. "I see... I see him. The man who raised me. The one who made me this way."

"And what did he teach you?"

"That strength is all that matters. That kindness is weakness. That you take what you want or someone takes from you." The gang leader's hands were shaking. "That I was worthless unless I was feared."

"And do you believe that?"

A long, terrible silence.

Then: "I don't know. I don't... I don't know anymore."

"Look deeper," Mender said gently. "Past what he taught you. Past the walls you built. What do you see?"

The gang leader's face twisted with pain. "I see a scared kid. I see... I see myself. Before. When I still thought..." His voice broke. "When I still thought someone might love me."

"And what happened to that boy?"

"He learned no one would. So he stopped trying. He became what they said he was."

"No," Mender said quietly. "He became what he thought he had to be to survive. But that's not who you are. That's who you were taught to be."

The gang leader was sobbing now—great, heaving sobs that shook his whole body.

"I've hurt so many people," he choked out. "I've done terrible things. I can't... I can't take it back."

"No," Mender agreed. "You can't. But you can stop. You can choose—right now—to be someone different. Someone better."

"How?" The gang leader looked up at him with desperate, broken eyes. "How do I fix this?"

"One choice at a time," Mender said. "Starting now."

Mender released his shoulder and stepped back, breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead.

The gang leader collapsed forward, his face in his hands, still sobbing.

Rosey was shaking, tears streaming down her own face. She felt hollowed out, raw, like she'd been turned inside out.

Mender looked at her, concerned. "Rosey?"

"I felt it," she whispered. "I felt... all of it."

His eyes widened. "You shouldn't have been able to—"

"You were concentrating so deeply. I think... I think I got pulled in." She wiped her eyes, her voice breaking. "You do this every time? You carry all of that?"

Mender's expression softened. "It's not always that intense."

"But sometimes it is."

He didn't deny it.

"How do you not drown in it?" she asked.

Mender's hand moved to Keeper, the familiar weight grounding him. "Because I have you. All of you. You remind me who I am when the memories get too heavy."

The gang leader sobbed louder. Wailed. Years of pain and heartache washing away.

CRASH.

The door burst open.

Two gang members charged in, weapons drawn, faces furious.

"What did you do to him?!" one shouted, seeing their leader hunched over, sobbing.

"What kind of trick—"

"Stop." The gang leader's voice was hoarse but firm.

The men froze.

He looked up, his face wet with tears, his eyes red. "Put the weapons down."

"But boss—"

"Now."

They lowered their weapons slowly, confused and wary.

The gang leader stood on shaking legs. He looked at Mender, then at Rosey, then at his men.

"I've been wrong," he said, his voice raw. "For years. I've been so wrong."

The men stared at him.

"We're done," the gang leader continued. "Done hurting people. Done taking. Done ruling through fear."

"Boss, what are you—"

"I said we're done." He took a shaky breath. "From now on, we protect this town. Really protect it. We help people. We make things right."

One of the men looked at Mender with suspicion. "What did you do to him?"

"I showed him the truth," Mender said quietly. "The rest was his choice."

The gang leader nodded. "He's right. This is my choice. And if you don't like it..." He straightened, some of his old authority returning. "You can leave. But if you stay, you follow my lead. We do things differently now."

The men exchanged glances. Then, slowly, they nodded.

"Good," the gang leader said. He waved them away. "Go. Tell the others. We're changing how we do things."

The men left, still looking confused but obedient.

The gang leader sank back into his chair, exhausted.

Mender stepped forward. "There's something else. A family in this town. A girl—about ten or eleven—with light magic. You threatened to take her from her parents."

The gang leader's face went pale. "Star," he whispered. "Oh god. I told them..." He looked sick. "I told them I'd break her. Make her into a weapon."

"Yes," Mender said quietly.

The gang leader buried his face in his hands. "What kind of monster threatens a child?"

"The kind you were," Mender said. "Not the kind you're choosing to be now."

The gang leader looked up, tears streaming again. "Tell them. Please. Tell her family she's safe. Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them..." His voice broke. "Tell them I'll never hurt another child. Ever."

Mender nodded. "I will."

Rosey and Mender left the warehouse in silence.

The morning sun was bright after the dim interior, and Rosey blinked against it, still feeling shaken.

They walked for several minutes before she spoke.

"That was the hardest one you've ever done, wasn't it?"

Mender was quiet for a moment. "One of them."

"And you do it anyway."

"Someone has to."

Rosey stopped walking and turned to face him. "You're braver than I ever realized."

Mender looked surprised. "Rosey—"

"I mean it." Her voice was fierce. "What you just did—what you always do—walking into someone's pain like that, carrying it, helping them see the truth... that takes more courage than I can imagine."

"You were there too," Mender said gently. "You felt it. You didn't run."

"I didn't have a choice. I got pulled in." She shook her head. "But you choose it. Every time."

Mender reached out and squeezed her hand. "And every time, I come back to you. To all of you. That's what makes it possible."

Rosey squeezed back, tears in her eyes again. "We're lucky to have you."

"I'm the lucky one," Mender said softly.

They stood there for a moment, hands clasped, the weight of what had just happened settling between them.

Then Rosey took a breath. "Come on. We need to tell Marcus and Elena. They need to know their daughter is safe."

Mender nodded.

And together, they walked back towards camp.

 

The camp came into view, and Rosey saw them immediately.

Marcus and Elena sat by the fire, hands clasped together, their faces drawn with worry and exhaustion. They looked like they hadn't slept all night.

Star sat apart from them, on the steps of the wagon, staring at nothing. But when Lyric emerged from inside carrying his lute, her gaze followed him.

Just for a moment. Just a flicker.

But Rosey saw it.

Marcus spotted them first and stood quickly. "What happened? Did you—"

"She's safe," Mender said.

Elena's hand flew to her mouth, a sob escaping.

"The gang leader..." Mender paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's changed. Truly changed. He won't hurt anyone anymore. He's going to protect the town now. Really protect it."

Marcus stared at him. "How? How is that possible?"

"I showed him the truth of what he'd become," Mender said quietly. "And he chose to be better."

Elena was crying now, her whole body shaking with relief. Marcus pulled her close, his own eyes wet.

"Thank you," Marcus whispered. "Thank you. I don't know how to... we can never repay—"

"You don't need to," Rosey said gently. "We're just glad we could help."

For a long moment, the only sound was Elena's quiet crying and the crackle of the fire.

Then Marcus took a shaky breath. "There's something we need to ask you."

Rosey and Mender exchanged a glance.

"What is it?" Rosey asked.

Marcus looked at his daughter, still sitting on the wagon steps, still watching Lyric with that distant, almost-present expression.

"We want you to take her with you," he said.

Rosey's heart clenched. "But... she's safe now. You can keep her. You don't have to—"

"We know," Elena said, wiping her eyes. "We know she's safe. But she's not... she's not whole."

Marcus nodded. "We've been watching her. For weeks now, she's been empty. Disconnected. Like she's somewhere else all the time." His voice cracked. "But yesterday, when she came back from the woods... she was different. Present. Almost smiling."

"We asked her what happened," Elena continued. "And she said she met a boy. A boy who played music. And when he played, her light danced."

Rosey glanced at Lyric. He was tuning his lute quietly, unaware he was being talked about. Star sat on the wagon steps, watching him with that distant, almost-present expression.

"We see how she lights up when she's around your boy," Marcus said. "When she hears his music. That's the first time we've seen her truly present in months."

Elena's voice broke. "She can't stay here. Even though things are safe now, it won't feel that way for a very long time. Not for her. Not for us."

"The town needs to heal too," Marcus added. "And she can't heal in the place that hurt her. Every street, every building... it all reminds her of what almost happened. Of how afraid we were."

"But with you..." Elena looked at Rosey with desperate, hopeful eyes. "With Lyric's music... maybe she can find herself again. Maybe she can remember what it's like to be a child. To be happy."

Rosey's throat tightened. "You're asking us to take your daughter. Even though she's safe. Even though you could keep her."

"We're asking you to help her heal," Marcus said. "In a way we can't."

Mender was quiet for a long moment, then he looked at Star. "Does she know? Does she want this?"

"We haven't told her yet," Elena said. "We wanted to ask you first. But..." She glanced at her daughter. "I think she does. I think part of her is already gone. Already traveling with you in her heart."

Rosey looked at Star again. The girl was still watching Lyric, and there was something in her expression—something fragile and yearning.

"If we take her," Rosey said carefully, "she'll need a new name. To help her start fresh. To leave the fear behind."

Marcus nodded. "We understand."

"And you'll want to see her again," Mender added. "When she's ready."

"Yes," Elena whispered. "Please. We're not... we're not giving her up forever. Just..."

Rosey looked at Mender. He met her gaze, and she saw the same conflict in his eyes that she felt in her heart.

This was different from Lyric. Lyric had been trapped, exploited, with nowhere else to go.

Star had parents who loved her. A home. Safety now.

But she also had trauma that wouldn't heal in the place that caused it.

And she had a connection to Lyric—something that brought her back to herself in a way nothing else had.

Mender turned to Marcus and Elena. "Let us talk to her. Let her choose."

 

They approached Star together—Rosey and Mender. She looked up as they came near, her moonlight hair catching the morning sun.

"Star," Mender said gently, crouching down to her level. "Your parents told us what happened in the woods. When you met Lyric."

Star's gaze flicked to Lyric, then away.

"They said your light danced to his music," Mender continued. "That you felt... present. Is that true?"

Star was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "I don't remember deciding to make the light. It just... happened. Like it was listening to the music instead of me."

Lyric had stopped tuning his lute. He was listening now. "Did you like it?" He asked Lumina, his voice gentle.

Star looked at him fully for the first time. "Yes. It felt... quiet. Safe."

"Your parents think you might feel less afraid if you came with us for a while," Mender said. "Away from this town. Away from the memories of being scared."

Star's eyes widened slightly.

You'd travel with us," Rosey added. "See new places. Hear Lyric's music every day. Learn to use your light in ways that make you happy."

"And when you're ready," Mender said, "you can come back. Visit your parents. Or stay with us. Whichever you choose."

Star looked at her parents, sitting by the fire, watching her with tear-streaked faces.

Then she looked at Lyric.

"Would you play for me?" she asked quietly. "Every day?"

Lyric's expression softened. "Every day. I promise."

Star was quiet for a long time, her hands twisting in her lap.

Then, barely audible: "Yes. I want to go."

 

Elena broke down when Star told them.

She pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tight, sobbing into her hair. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"

"I know, Mama," Star whispered.

Marcus knelt beside them, wrapping his arms around both of them. "You're so brave. So strong. We're so proud of you."

I'm scared," Star admitted, her voice small.

"I know, sweetheart," Elena said, pulling back to cup her daughter's face. "But you'll be safe. You won't have to be afraid anymore. Not every day. They'll take care of you. And we'll see you again. I promise."

"When?" Star asked.

"When you're ready," Marcus said. "There's no rush. Take all the time you need."

Star nodded, tears streaming down her face.

They held each other for a long time, the three of them, while the troupe gave them space.

Finally, Elena pulled back and wiped her daughter's face gently. "You need a traveling name. Something to help you start fresh."

Star looked at Mender.

He crouched down again. "I have an idea. But only if you like it."

"What is it?"

"Lumina," Mender said. "It means light. It honors your gift. But it's not tied to the fear. It's not tied to this place. It's... yours. If you want it."

Star—Lumina—tested the name. She whispered it to herself.

"Lumina"

Then she looked at her parents. "Do you like it?"

Elena smiled through her tears. "It's beautiful. Just like you."

"Then I want it," Lumina said. "I want to be Lumina."

Mender smiled. "Then Lumina it is."

 

The goodbye was long and tearful.

Elena packed a small bag with Lumina's clothes and a few treasured items—a carved wooden bird from her father, a scarf her mother had knitted, a book of stories they used to read together.

"So you don't forget us," Elena whispered.

"I won't forget," Lumina promised.

Marcus knelt and held her one last time. "You're the bravest person I know. And I'm so proud to be your father."

"I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Star—Lumina. Always."

Elena kissed her daughter's forehead, her cheeks, her hands. "Be safe. Be happy. And come back to us when you're ready."

"I will, Mama."

And then, with one last embrace, Lumina let go.

She walked to the wagon, where Lyric was waiting with his lute.

He offered her his hand. "Ready?"

Lumina took it, her fingers trembling. "I think so."

Rosey helped her into the wagon and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "You're safe now, dear. We've got you."

Lumina nodded, tears still streaming, but she didn't look back.

Not yet.

The wagon began to roll, and Vigil guided the Trotters gently forward.

North called out directions. Forge secured the back. Mender sat beside Rosey, watching Lumina with quiet concern.

And Lyric sat next to Lumina, his lute in his lap.

"Can I play?" he asked softly.

Lumina nodded.

So Lyric began to play.

A gentle melody. Warm and safe and full of promise.

And as the music filled the wagon, Lumina's hands began to move.

Sunlight filtered through the canvas above, and she reached for it—instinctively, without thinking.

The light responded, bending toward her fingers, pooling in her palms like water.

Soft, shimmering, beautiful.

She stared at it, surprised.

"It's listening to you again," Lyric said, smiling.

Lumina looked at him, and for the first time since they'd met, she smiled back.

A real smile. Small and fragile, but real.

And as the wagon rolled away from the town, away from the fear, away from the pain, Lumina let the light dance.

Not because she had to.

But because she wanted to.

 

FINDING HER PLACE

The first few days were the hardest.

Lumina was quiet—so quiet that sometimes Rosey forgot she was there. She sat in corners of the wagon, staring at nothing, her moonlight hair falling across her face like a veil.

She ate when Rosey put food in front of her. She slept when someone told her it was time. She moved through the world like a ghost, barely present.

But she was there. And that was enough for now.

Rosey was patient.

She'd learned, over the years, that healing couldn't be rushed. So she didn't push. She just made sure Lumina had what she needed: warm meals, a soft place to sleep, a gentle voice when the silence got too heavy.

"Good morning, dear," Rosey would say, even when Lumina didn't respond.

"Here's some tea. It's chamomile—helps with sleep."

"We're stopping in a new town today. You don't have to perform. You can just watch if you'd like."

Small things. Steady things.

And slowly—so slowly Rosey almost didn't notice—Lumina began to respond.

A nod instead of silence.

A whispered "thank you" when Rosey handed her breakfast.

A flicker of eye contact that lasted half a second longer each day.

Progress.

 

North tried a different approach.

"Lumina," she said one afternoon, spreading a map across the wagon floor. "Come here, sugar. I wanna show ya somethin'."

Lumina drifted over, her expression distant.

North pointed to a spot on the map. "This is where we are now. And this"—she traced a line with her finger—"is where we're headed next. See how the road curves 'round the mountains? That's because there's a river here that floods in spring."

Lumina stared at the map, her brow furrowing slightly.

"Do ya know how to read a map?" North asked.

A small shake of the head.

"Well then, I'll teach ya." North smiled. "It's good to know where ya are. Helps ya feel grounded. Like yer not just driftin'."

Over the next few weeks, North taught Lumina to read maps, to understand distances and landmarks, to trace routes with her finger.

It was practical. Grounding. Real.

And Lumina seemed to focus a little more when she had a map in front of her.

"Where are we now?" North would ask. And Lumina, after a long pause, would point to the right spot.

"Good girl," North would say warmly. "Yer gettin' it."

Forge didn't talk much.

But one day, when Lumina was sitting on the steps of the wagon, watching him repair a broken wheel, he grunted and held out a small wooden mallet.

"Hold this," he said.

Lumina blinked, surprised, but took it.

Forge worked in silence for a while, then nodded toward a loose bolt. "Tap that. Gently."

Lumina hesitated, then did as he asked.

"Good. Again."

She tapped it again.

"There. See? You fixed it."

Lumina stared at the bolt, then at Forge.

He didn't smile—Forge rarely smiled—but his voice was gruff and kind. "Sometimes you just need to know you can fix things. Makes the world feel less broken."

After that, Lumina would sometimes sit with Forge while he worked. She didn't talk. But she handed him tools when he needed them, held pieces steady while he hammered, learned the names of things.

Nails. Bolts. Hinges. Joints.

Small, solid, fixable things.

 

Vigil noticed her at night.

While the others slept, Lumina would sit outside the wagon, staring at the stars with that faraway look in her eyes.

One night, Vigil approached quietly, their hooves barely making a sound.

"Lumina cannot sleep?" they asked, their voice calm and measured.

Lumina shook her head.

"Vigil understands. The night is quieter. Easier to think." They sat down beside her—or rather, folded their legs beneath them in that distinctly goat-like way. "Vigil works at night. Tends the Trotters. Would Lumina like to help?"

Lumina looked at them, her expression uncertain.

"Vigil does not require conversation," they added gently. "Just company. And steady hands."

After a moment, Lumina nodded.

So she began to help Vigil with the night work.

Brushing the Trotters' striped coats. Filling water troughs. Checking harnesses for wear.

It was quiet. Peaceful. And Vigil never pushed her to talk.

Sometimes they would hum softly while they worked—a low, rumbling sound that was almost like a purr.

And Lumina, for the first time in weeks, felt something close to calm.

Mender watched her carefully, but he didn't intrude.

He'd learned, through his own healing, that sometimes people needed space. So he gave it to her.

But every few days, he would sit beside her and ask, gently: "How are you feeling today?"

Sometimes she would shrug.

Sometimes she would say, "Tired."

Once, she said, "I don't know."

And Mender nodded. "That's all right. You don't have to know yet."

He never pushed her to talk about what had happened. Never asked her to relive the fear.

He just reminded her, quietly, that she was safe now.

"You're with us," he would say. "And we're not going anywhere."

 

But it was Lyric who reached her most.

At first, he didn't try to talk to her much. He was still finding his own voice again, still learning that it was safe to be loud, to be joyful, to take up space.

But he played.

Every evening, he would sit on the steps of the wagon with his lute, playing soft melodies that drifted through the camp like a lullaby.

And Lumina would sit nearby, her eyes half-closed, listening.

As the weeks passed, Lyric grew braver.

He started playing louder. Brighter. He'd try new songs, stumble over the notes, laugh at himself when he got them wrong.

"That was terrible!" he'd announce cheerfully. "Let me try again!"

And he would, until he got it right.

Every evening, he would sit on the steps of the wagon with his lute, playing soft melodies that drifted through the camp like a lullaby.

And Lumina would sit nearby, her eyes half-closed, listening.

She didn't dance. Didn't make light.

But she was there. Present. Listening.

And sometimes—just sometimes—Lyric would see her fingers twitch, as if they wanted to reach for something.

Light, maybe.

Music, maybe.

Something she wasn't ready to touch yet.

But someday.

 

One evening, after a particularly complicated song, Lyric looked over at her and grinned. "Did you like that one? I've been practicing for days. Forge says it sounds like cats fighting, but I think he's just grumpy."

Lumina blinked, pulled from her dreamy state. "I liked it."

Lyric's grin widened. "Really? You're not just saying that?"

"Really," Lumina said softly.

"Good!" Lyric bounced a little. "Because I'm going to play it again. And again. Until everyone admits it's actually good."

Lumina smiled—small and fragile, but real.

And Lyric, seeing it, felt something warm bloom in his chest.

'She smiled. I made her smile.'

He played the song again, even better this time, and didn't notice the way Rosey was watching them both with knowing eyes.

 

Weeks passed.

The troupe traveled from town to town, performing, helping, moving on.

And slowly, Lumina began to emerge.

She started asking questions.

"Where are we going next?"

"What's that instrument called?"

"Can I help with dinner?"

She laughed—just once, when one of the Trotters sneezed and startled Forge so badly he dropped his hammer.

It was a small, surprised sound, but it was real.

Rosey nearly cried when she heard it.

Lumina still drifted. Still got lost in her own head. Still stared at nothing for long stretches of time.

But she was healing.

Bit by bit.

Day by day.

And the troupe held her gently, patiently, as she found her way back to herself.

 

LIGHT-BRINGERS

 

It started with the fireflies.

Lumina noticed them one evening, just after sunset. She was sitting outside the wagon, half-asleep as usual, when she saw them—tiny points of light drifting through the air like fallen stars.

One landed on her hand.

She blinked, focusing on it for the first time in days.

It glowed softly, pulsing in a gentle rhythm. Then another landed on her shoulder. And another on her knee.

Within minutes, she was covered in fireflies.

"Um," she said quietly. "Help?"

Vigil looked up from tending the Trotters and tilted their head, their horizontal-pupil eyes blinking slowly.

"Ah," they said. "The light-bringers have found Lumina."

"Why are they... why are there so many?"

"They are drawn to Lumina's magic," Vigil explained, walking over. "Lumina carries light within her. They sense it. They want to be near it."

Lumina stared at the fireflies covering her arms. "What do I do?"

"Vigil suggests sitting very still," Vigil said calmly. "Or Lumina could try asking them to leave."

"Asking them?"

"They are polite creatures. Usually."

Lumina looked at the fireflies. "Um. Could you... could you please go?"

The fireflies didn't move.

"Vigil said usually," Vigil added helpfully.

Lumina couldn't help it—she laughed. Just a small sound, but it startled the fireflies enough that half of them flew away.

The other half stayed, glowing contentedly on her shoulders like tiny lanterns.

"Vigil thinks they like Lumina," Vigil said, their tone almost amused. "And Vigil thinks more will come."

Vigil was right.

Over the next few nights, more fireflies appeared. They followed Lumina everywhere—drifting around her when she walked, settling on her hair when she sat still, glowing softly in the darkness like a living constellation.

Rosey found it charming.

Forge found it inconvenient. ("How is anyone supposed to sleep with all that glowing?")

North found it practical. (" 'Least we can always find 'er in the dark, sugar.")

And Lyric found it beautiful.

He started playing his lute in the evenings, just to watch the fireflies dance to the music. They would swirl and dip in patterns that matched his melodies, creating light shows that left everyone mesmerized.

Lumina watched them, wonder slowly replacing the emptiness in her eyes.

"They're listening to you," she told Lyric one night.

"I think they're listening to both of us," Lyric said, smiling.

 

Then the lumimoth came.

It appeared one night while Lumina was sitting with Vigil, watching the fireflies.

At first, she thought it was just a larger firefly. But as it drew closer, she realized it was something else entirely.

A moth.

But not like any moth she'd ever seen.

It was the size of her hand, with wings that shimmered like moonlight on water. It glowed softly, pulsing with a gentle, steady rhythm that reminded her of a heartbeat.

It landed on her outstretched hand without hesitation.

Lumina's breath caught.

"Oh," she whispered. "You're beautiful."

The moth's wings fluttered gently, and its glow brightened—just a little, as if it was pleased.

Vigil leaned closer, their eyes wide. "Vigil has never seen one before. A lumimoth. Vigil has only read about them in books."

"A lumimoth?"

"A creature of pure light," Vigil said softly. "Rare. Precious. And apparently drawn to Lumina."

The lumimoth crawled up Lumina's arm and settled on her shoulder, right next to the fireflies.

It didn't leave.

Not that night. Not the next day. Not ever.

"Vigil thinks she has chosen Lumina," Vigil said. "Vigil thinks Lumina should give her a name."

Lumina looked at the moth, glowing softly against her shoulder.

"Luna," she said quietly. "Her name is Luna."

The lumimoth's wings fluttered in what Vigil swore was approval.

 

Vigil began helping Lumina care for the light-bringers.

They built small terrariums for the fireflies—glass jars with air holes and soft moss inside, so the fireflies had a place to rest during the day.

They crafted a delicate perch for Luna, carved from driftwood, lined with soft fabric.

And they started searching for other sources of light that Lumina could work with.

"Lumina's magic needs light to shape," Vigil explained one evening. "The fireflies and Luna are wonderful. But Vigil thinks Lumina needs more. Plants, perhaps. Fungi. Things that glow on their own."

"Where do we find those?" Lumina asked.

"Vigil will look," Vigil said simply. "Vigil is very good at finding things."

A week later, Vigil returned from a trip to the market with an armful of small pots.

"Glowflowers," they announced proudly, setting them down in front of Lumina. "The merchant said they bloom at night. Vigil thought Lumina might like them."

Lumina stared at the flowers. They looked ordinary in the daylight—small, delicate, with pale petals.

But that night, when the sun set, they began to glow.

Soft blue. Gentle green. Pale violet.

Lumina gasped, reaching out to touch one. The moment her fingers brushed the petals, the glow brightened, as if the flower was responding to her.

"They like Lumina," Vigil said, pleased. "Vigil knew they would."

Over the next few weeks, Vigil collected more glowflowers—different colors, different sizes. They filled the wagon with pots of glowing blooms, turning it into a garden of living light.

Lumina tended them carefully, learning which ones needed more water, which ones preferred shade, which ones bloomed brightest when she sang to them softly.

 

Then Vigil found the fungi.

Lumina wasn't sure where Vigil had gotten them—Vigil was vague about it, muttering something about "a very damp forest" and "Vigil may have borrowed a log"—but suddenly there were glowing mushrooms everywhere.

They grew on pieces of driftwood, on the sides of crates, on the wagon steps.

Cheerful patches of yellow and orange that glowed enthusiastically in the dark.

"Vigil has tried to contain them," Vigil said, gesturing helplessly at a log that was now completely covered in glowing fungi. "Vigil has failed. They grow where they please."

Lumina laughed—a real, delighted laugh. "I love them."

"Vigil is relieved. Vigil was worried Lumina might find them too... enthusiastic."

The fungi did not care about Vigil's concerns. They continued to grow with wild abandon, glowing brighter every night.

Forge complained. ("Now there are glowing mushrooms in my toolbox. How did they even get in there?")

But Lumina adored them.

The cloud puffs were the strangest discovery.

The troupe had stopped near a meadow one morning, and Lumina had wandered out into the mist, still half-asleep.

Vigil followed her, concerned she might get lost.

But when they found her, she was standing in the middle of the meadow, surrounded by... something.

"Vigil is not entirely sure what those are," Vigil admitted, staring.

They looked like small clouds—fluffy, glowing, drifting lazily through the air just above the ground.

One of them bumped gently against Lumina's cheek.

She reached out, and it nestled into her hands, glowing brighter.

"They're warm," she said, wonder in her voice. "Like mist, but... alive."

More cloud puffs drifted over, surrounding her in a soft, glowing halo.

Vigil watched, fascinated. "Vigil has never seen these before. Vigil thinks they are drawn to Lumina. Like the fireflies. Like Luna."

"Can we keep them?" Lumina asked.

"Vigil does not think they can be kept," Vigil said. "But Vigil thinks they will follow Lumina. If Lumina asks."

Lumina looked at the cloud puffs. "Will you come with me?"

The cloud puffs glowed brighter, drifting closer.

Vigil took that as a yes.

From that day on, the cloud puffs traveled with the troupe.

They floated around the wagon during the day, nearly invisible in the sunlight. Choosing to rest in barrels. But at night, they glowed softly, drifting through the camp like living stars.

Lumina would sit with them in the evenings, letting them settle around her shoulders, in her hair, in her lap.

They were gentle. Quiet. Comforting.

And when she worked with them—shaping their light, weaving it into patterns—they responded with a kind of joy that made her heart ache.

Vigil taught her the most important lesson one night, as they sat together tending the glowflowers.

"Lumina's magic is special," Vigil said quietly. "But Vigil wants Lumina to understand something."

Lumina looked up.

"Light is alive," Vigil continued. "The fireflies, Luna, the glowflowers, the fungi, the cloud puffs—they are not tools. They are not things to be used. They are living beings who share their light with Lumina."

Lumina's eyes widened. "I... I didn't think of it that way."

"Vigil knows. Most people do not." Vigil's voice was gentle but firm. "Lumina cannot create light. Lumina can only borrow it. Shape it. Honor it. And in return, the light-bringers will trust Lumina. They will work with Lumina. They will help Lumina create beauty."

Lumina looked at Luna on her shoulder, the fireflies glowing softly around her, the glowflowers brightening at her touch, the cloud puffs drifting peacefully nearby.

"I understand," she said quietly. "I'll take care of them. I promise."

Vigil nodded, satisfied. "Vigil believes Lumina. And Vigil thinks the light-bringers believe Lumina too."

Luna fluttered her wings in agreement.

 

Lumina worked with Vigil every evening.

She learned to tend the creatures and plants with care and respect. She learned which flowers needed more water, which fungi needed shade, which fireflies preferred to rest in which jars.

And she learned to work with their light—not commanding it, but asking. Shaping it gently. Honoring it.

The fireflies would dance in patterns when she hummed.

Luna would glow brighter when she was calm.

The glowflowers would bloom more beautifully when she tended them with care.

And the cloud puffs would drift around her like a living constellation.

She was still dreamy. Still distant sometimes.

But when she worked with the light-bringers, she was present.

Focused.

Alive.

And Vigil, watching her gently coax a shy glowflower into blooming, thought that Lumina was like a glowflower herself.

She just needed gentle caring to start to blossom.

 

SONG AND STARLIGHT

 

The town was small but lively, nestled in a valley between two hills. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and a traveling performance troupe was the most exciting thing to happen all month.

The troupe set up in the town square, just as the sun began to set.

Forge grumbled about uneven cobblestones while setting up the stage. North directed traffic with her usual precision, making sure everything was exactly where it needed to be. Vigil tended the Trotters, murmuring soft reassurances as they settled in for the evening.

And Lyric tuned his lute, his fingers trembling slightly.

"You're nervous," Rosey observed, handing him a cup of tea.

"A little," Lyric admitted. "I wrote a new song. I want to... I want to ask Lumina if she'll perform it with me."

Rosey's eyes softened. "I think she'd love that, dear."

"What if she's not ready?" Lyric asked quietly. "What if it's too much?"

"Then she'll tell you," Rosey said gently. "But I think you'll be surprised."

 

Lyric found Lumina sitting on the steps of the wagon, surrounded by her light-bringers.

Luna rested on her shoulder, glowing softly. The fireflies drifted lazily around her head. The cloud puffs floated nearby like gentle stars.

She looked peaceful. Almost happy.

"Lumina?" Lyric said softly.

She looked up, blinking as if waking from a dream. "Lyric. Hi."

"Hi." He sat down beside her, his lute in his lap. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"I wrote a new song," Lyric said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "And I was wondering if—if you'd want to perform it with me. Tonight. In front of everyone. You don't have to! I just thought—we've been practicing, and you're so good with the lights, and I think it would be beautiful, but only if you want to—"

"Lyric," Lumina said gently, and he stopped.

She was smiling.

"I'd love to," she said.

Lyric's face lit up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay!" Lyric bounced a little, his nervousness melting into excitement. "Okay! So we don't have to plan it. We'll just... make something together. Like we always do."

Lumina nodded, her smile growing. "Like we always do."

"We're doing this?" Lyric asked, grinning.

"We're doing this," Lumina said, grinning.

 

The performance began just as the stars came out.

Mender told stories that made the children gasp and the adults lean forward, captivated. Forge demonstrated feats of strength that earned cheers and applause. North juggled with impossible precision, her movements sharp and graceful.

And then Rosey stepped forward, her warm voice carrying across the square.

"And now," she said, smiling, "we have something special for you. A new act, performed for the first time tonight. Please welcome Lyric and Lumina."

The crowd applauded politely, curious.

Lyric and Lumina stepped onto the stage.

Lyric's hands were shaking, but the moment he saw Lumina standing beside him—calm, dreamy, surrounded by her light-bringers—he felt his nerves settle.

"Ready?" he whispered.

Lumina nodded. "Ready."

Lyric took a breath, settled his lute in his lap, and began to play.

The song started soft and slow, like the first stars appearing in the evening sky.

A gentle melody, warm and wandering, full of wonder and hope.

Lumina closed her eyes and listened.

And then, without thinking, she reached for the light.

The fireflies responded first, rising into the air in slow, graceful spirals. Luna's glow pulsed in rhythm with the music, her wings fluttering gently. The cloud puffs drifted closer, weaving between Lumina's fingers like living mist.

Lumina's hands began to move.

She shaped the light—gently, carefully, honoring it the way Vigil had taught her.

The fireflies spun in patterns that matched the melody, their lights blinking in perfect time. Luna flew in slow circles above them, trailing soft silver light. The cloud puffs glowed brighter, forming constellations that shifted and changed with every note.

The crowd gasped.

Lyric's music swelled, growing brighter, more joyful.

And Lumina's light danced.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't rehearsed.

It was effortless.

The music and the light wove together, inseparable, as if they'd always been meant to exist this way.

Lyric played a rising melody, and the lights soared upward, spinning like stars.

He played a soft, tender phrase, and the lights dimmed to a gentle glow, warm and comforting.

He played a playful trill, and the fireflies scattered and regrouped, dancing like laughter.

And through it all, Lumina moved with the music, her eyes half-closed, her expression peaceful and focused and alive.

She wasn't lost in her own head.

She wasn't somewhere else.

She was here.

Present.

Creating something beautiful.

The song built to a crescendo—Lyric's fingers flying across the strings, the melody soaring higher and higher.

And Lumina's light exploded into brilliance.

The fireflies spun in dizzying spirals. Luna glowed so bright she looked like a falling star. The cloud puffs expanded, filling the air with shimmering mist that caught the light and scattered it into a thousand colors.

It was breathtaking.

The crowd was silent, mesmerized, unable to look away.

And then, gently, the music began to slow.

The lights dimmed, softening, settling.

The fireflies drifted back to Lumina, glowing peacefully. Luna returned to her shoulder, her wings folding delicately. The cloud puffs nestled around her like a living halo.

Lyric played the final note—soft, warm, full of hope.

And the light faded to a gentle glow.

Silence.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

And then the crowd erupted into applause.

Lumina opened her eyes, blinking in surprise.

The square was full of people—cheering, clapping, some wiping tears from their eyes.

"That was incredible!" someone shouted.

"The most beautiful thing I've ever seen!" another called.

Lumina looked at Lyric, her eyes wide.

Lyric was grinning so wide his face hurt.

"We did it," he said, breathless. "Lumina, we did it!"

Lumina stared at him, and then—slowly—she started to smile.

Not a small, fragile smile.

A real one.

Bright and joyful and alive.

"We did," she said, and she laughed—a sound full of wonder and disbelief and happiness.

 

After the performance, the troupe gathered around the fire, celebrating.

Forge clapped Lyric on the shoulder so hard he nearly fell over. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all."

North hugged Lumina gently. "You were beautiful, sugar. Absolutely beautiful."

Mender smiled warmly. "I think you've found your calling."

Vigil approached quietly, their eyes soft. "Vigil is very proud of Lumina. And of Lyric. The light-bringers were honored to be part of something so beautiful."

Lumina looked at all of them—this strange, wonderful family she'd found—and felt something settle in her chest.

Safety.

Belonging.

Home.

"Thank you," she said softly. "All of you. For... for everything."

Rosey pulled her into a warm hug. "You're one of us now, dear. And we're not going anywhere."

Lumina hugged her back, tears pricking her eyes.

 

Later, when the fire had burned low and most of the troupe had drifted off to sleep, Rosey found Lyric sitting alone, his lute in his lap, staring at the stars.

"Can't sleep?" she asked gently, sitting beside him.

"Too excited," Lyric admitted, grinning. "That was... that was the best thing I've ever done, Rosey. The best thing we've ever done."

"It was beautiful, dear," Rosey said warmly. "What's the song called? You never told us."

Lyric's cheeks flushed pink, and he looked down at his lute. "Song & Starlight," he said quietly.

Rosey's expression softened. "Song & Starlight," she repeated. "That's lovely."

Lyric didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.

Rosey understood.

She reached over and squeezed his hand. "She's lucky to have you, you know."

"I'm lucky to have her," Lyric said softly. "All of you. I'm lucky to have all of you."

Rosey smiled. "We're lucky to have you too, dear."

The next morning, the troupe prepared to move on.

Lumina helped Vigil tend the light-bringers, her movements calm and practiced. North folded maps with military precision. Forge secured the wagon, muttering about loose bolts.

And Lyric sat on the steps, playing his lute softly.

Lumina drifted over, a cloud puff floating lazily beside her.

"Good morning," she said, smiling.

"Good morning!" Lyric said brightly. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did," Lumina said. "I dreamed about the performance. About the lights and the music."

"Me too," Lyric said, grinning. "It was amazing, wasn't it?"

"It was," Lumina agreed. Then, after a pause: "Rosey told me the name of the song. Song & Starlight."

Lyric's fingers stumbled on the strings, and he looked up at her, his cheeks flushing. "Oh. Yeah. That's... that's what I called it."

Lumina tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "It's a beautiful name."

"Thanks," Lyric said, his voice a little higher than usual.

Lumina looked at him for a long moment, something flickering in her eyes—curiosity, maybe, or the beginning of understanding.

But then the moment passed, and she smiled that dreamy, distant smile.

"I like it," she said simply.

And then she drifted away, following a firefly that had landed on her hand.

Lyric watched her go, his heart doing that familiar flip.

 

Across the camp, Rosey and North stood together, watching.

"She doesn' know yet, does she?" North said quietly.

"No," Rosey said, smiling. "Not yet."

"Poor boy," North said, though her tone was fond. "How long do ya think it'll take?"

"As long as it needs to," Rosey said. "He's patient. And she's worth waiting for."

North nodded. "That she is."

 

And so the troupe moved on, traveling from town to town, Lyric and Lumina performing their music and light show to mesmerized crowds.

Lyric played his heart out every night, pouring all of his feelings into the music.

And Lumina danced with light, beautiful and dreamy and slowly, steadily healing.

She didn't know yet.

But that was okay,

Because she was worth waiting for.

And like a song drifting towards the stars,

They had found each other.

 

EPILOGUE

 

Years later.

The celebration was Rosey's idea.

"We've been traveling for months without a proper rest," she'd said one morning, hands on her hips. "And we've all been working ourselves ragged. We deserve a night to just... be together. No performances. No packing up at dawn. Just us."

No one argued.

The troupe had changed over the years. Grown. Evolved.

Lyric was no longer the quiet, traumatized boy they'd rescued. He was a young man now, confident and bright, his music known in towns across the territories. His lute was his constant companion for performances, but his flute—the one Rosey had given him all those years ago—was what he played when he wanted to speak from his heart.

Lumina had grown too, though in her own way. She was still dreamy, still prone to drifting off mid-conversation, still more awake at night than during the day. But she was no longer fragile. She was strong in her own quiet way, her magic refined and beautiful, her bond with the light-bringers unshakeable.

And they still performed together.

They had become legendary in some circles—the musician and the light-weaver, creating magic that left audiences breathless.

But Lumina had never quite understood why Lyric always smiled at her in that particular way when they performed.

Wren had offered her gathering room for the celebration.

"It's what it's for," she'd said simply, holding up the custom brass doorknob. "Family gatherings. And you're all family now."

The Troupe stepped through the doorway one by one, emerging into the impossible space.

It was warm and golden, filled with comfortable chairs and soft rugs. Light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, gentle and welcoming. Forge's light-bridges—shimmering pathways of light and intention—spanned the space, connecting different doorways and levels. The delicate structures caught the ambient glow and refracted it into soft rainbows that danced across the walls.

It felt like home.

Rosey immediately claimed a corner of the space, setting up with supplies from her wagon and herbs from Wren's garden room. Soon the smell of something warm and savory filled the air.

When she finally served the meal, it tasted like pure joy.

Relief. Celebration.

"This is incredible, Rosey," Wren said, her eyes wide. "What is this?"

"Happiness," Rosey said simply, smiling. "With a bit of rosemary."

Everyone ate with enthusiasm, laughing and talking, the warmth of family filling every corner of the impossible space.

After the meal, Rosey disappeared briefly and returned with a cloth-covered basket.

"I almost forgot," she said, setting it down on the table. "Honey cakes. For celebrating."

The sweet scent of honey and cinnamon filled the air—warm and golden and impossibly comforting. But there was something else too.

Lumina breathed in deeply and smelled starlight—if starlight had a scent. Cool and clear and infinite, the night sky she'd always felt more at home under than any roof.

"Rosey," Wren whispered, staring at the honey cakes. "What... what is this?"

Rosey smiled gently. "Just honey cakes, dear. With a little bit of comfort baked in."

She began handing them out—one to each person, warm and golden and perfect.

Lumina took a bite, and the taste was even better than the smell. Sweet honey, warm spices, and something indefinable. Something that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold night. Like being told everything would be okay. Like being loved.

With every bite and morsel finished, Lyric pulled out his flute.

"We should have music," he said, grinning. "Proper music. For a proper celebration."

He settled onto one of the comfortable chairs and began to play.

It started soft and sweet—a melody that seemed to dance through the air, weaving between the light-bridges. The flute's voice was clear and bright, like birdsong, filling every corner of the impossible space. Then it grew, building into something joyful and soaring, the notes cascading over each other in perfect harmony.

The troupe listened, some swaying, some humming along.

Lumina had been arranging small lights throughout the room—borrowing from the golden glow of the space itself, shaping it into soft orbs that floated near the ceiling. She'd been working quietly, as she always did, half-focused and dreamy.

But then Lyric's music shifted.

It became something gentler. More intimate.

And then—so smoothly she almost didn't notice—it morphed into a melody she knew by heart.

Song & Starlight.

Lumina paused, a light-orb hovering in her palm.

She looked at Lyric.

Really looked at him.

He was completely absorbed in the music, his eyes closed, the flute pressed to his lips. There was something about the way he played—the way he poured everything into it, the way the music seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him.

The way he always played for her.

The realization hit her like a gentle wave, breaking the shore.

All those nights he'd stayed up with her while she worked with the stars. All those songs he'd played just for her, even when everyone else was asleep.

The way his face lit up when she complimented his music. The way he always seemed to know exactly what melody she needed to hear.

The way his music was the only thing that truly grounded her, brought her into focus, made her feel fully present.

Song & Starlight, she thought, the title suddenly making perfect sense.

Song. Him.

Starlight. Her.

Oh.

The light-orb in her hand flickered, responding to her emotion. It shifted from golden to a soft, warm pink—the color of dawn, of new beginnings.

'He loves me.'

'He's always loved me.'

Lyric opened his eyes and caught her staring.

He smiled—that sweet, bright smile that was so completely him—and kept playing.

Lumina felt her heart do something strange and wonderful.

She smiled back, and for the first time, she understood what that feeling meant.

The song ended, and the troupe applauded softly, the moment too tender for loud cheers.

Lyric lowered the flute, his cheeks flushed, his eyes still on Lumina.

"Play another!" someone called out.

"Yes, please," Lumina said softly.

Lyric looked at her, and something in her expression made him pause. His smile widened, hopeful and wondering.

"Alright," he said, raising the flute to his lips again. "This one's for Lumina."

'They're all for me,' Lumina thought, her heartstrings fluttering with the realization. 'They've always been for me.'

And as he began to play, Lumina let her lights dance to his music—pink and gold and silver, spinning and swirling in patterns that matched the melody perfectly.

The troupe watched, smiling, as the two of them created something beautiful together.

Just like they always had.

Just like they always would.

 

Later after the celebration had wound down and most of the troupe had settled into comfortable corners of Wren's gathering room to rest, Lumina found Lyric sitting alone near one of the light-bridges, his flute resting in his lap.

"Can't sleep?"

He looked up, surprised. "Lumina. Hi. I just... I wanted to sit with the quiet for a bit."

She sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched.

"That was beautiful," she said. "What you played. Song & Starlight."

Lyric's cheeks flushed pink. "Thanks. I... I'm glad you liked it."

"I've always liked it," Lumina said. Then, quieter: "But I never understood it. Not really. Not until tonight."

Lyric's breath caught. "You... you understand it now?"

Lumina nodded, her eyes meeting his. "Song and Starlight. Music and light. You and me."

"Yeah," Lyric said softly. "It's always been about us."

"How long?" Lumina asked, her voice barely a whisper. "How long have you...?"

Lyric smiled, a little sad, a little hopeful. "Since the beginning, I think. Since the woods. Since the first time I saw your light dance."

Lumina felt tears prick her eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner."

"Don't be," Lyric said quickly. He hesitated, then smiled. "I didn't mind waiting. You were worth waiting for."

Lumina's heart felt too full.

She reached out and took his hand, just like she had all those years ago.

"I see it now," she said softly. "I see you."

Lyric's eyes widened, hope blooming across his face. "You do?"

"I do," Lumina said, smiling. "And I... I think I've been falling in love with you for a long time. I just didn't realize it."

Lyric's breath hitched, and then he laughed—a bright, joyful sound that made Lumina's lights flare pink and gold around them.

"Really?" he asked, his voice full of wonder.

"Really," Lumina said.

And then, slowly, carefully, she leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft and sweet and perfect—like starlight and music woven together.

When they pulled apart, Lyric was smiling. The biggest smile, brighter than the sun.

"Wow," he said.

Lumina laughed, her lights dancing around them like fireflies. "Wow," she agreed.

They sat together in Wren's gathering room, hands clasped, surrounded by light and music and the quiet warmth of belonging.

And somewhere nearby, Rosey smiled to herself, watching from across the room.

'Finally,' she thought fondly. 'Those two.'

Rosey turned away, deciding to give them some privacy. She smiled, her heart full. Love looked good on them.

She found Mender standing near one of the light-bridges, watching the colors play across the walls with quiet contentment. He'd given Keeper to Rev weeks ago—an act of trust and love that had cost him more than he'd let on. She'd seen the way his hand sometimes drifted to his empty pocket, the small pause before he remembered.

Rosey crossed to him now, her hand slipping into her own pocket. "Mender?"

He turned, his expression warm. "Rosey."

She pulled out a small bundle wrapped in soft cloth and held it out to him. "I have something for you."

Mender took it carefully, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a silver pocket watch. It gleamed in the soft light of the pocket dimension, simple and elegant, the chain pooling in his palm like liquid moonlight.

"It's not Keeper," Rosey said quietly. "It doesn't talk, and it's not magic. But I thought... you might like to have something to hold onto. Something that's yours."

Mender stared at the watch, his thumb brushing over the smooth silver case. When he looked up, his eyes were bright.

"Rosey," he said softly. "It's perfect."

She smiled. "I've been waiting for the right moment to give it to you. Tonight felt... right."

Mender opened the watch, checking the time out of habit, then closed it with a soft click. He slipped it into his pocket, and for the first time in weeks, that empty space felt full again.

"Thank you," he said, and the words carried everything he couldn't quite say—gratitude, love, the comfort of being known so completely.

Rosey squeezed his hand gently, then turned back to watch the light-bridges with him. The lights played off of the walls, and somewhere in the room, Lyric's soft laughter mingled with Lumina's. 

Light and Music. Both creating a melody in their own way. Together, making something absolutely beautiful. 

Rosey wasn't a fortune teller. She didn't have that kind of magic. But she knew that, wherever this path would lead them, Lyric & Lumina, Song & Starlight, would follow it Together.

THE END