Caelum Emberhart woke before the sun, as he did each morning for well over a century. It was a ritual—like most things he did—that went mostly unnoticed. Silently, in the predawn hours, he would ascend to the heights of the Hollow with his personal lantern—a living flame contained within the shell of a walnut. Once there, he began once again tending to each and every one of his lanterns throughout the Hollow until his sweep of the ground level was complete—humming gently to himself all the while

	He began with the first flame. Opening the mounted lantern, he waved away the fire with practiced ease. Then he cleared out the soot, ash, and whatever else had settled inside the vessel overnight. He inspected the frame, ready to tend or repair any failing element of its construction.

	Today, the first stop finally needed attention again. Caelum fluttered beside it, rummaging through the dark messenger bag slung across his shoulder—crafted long ago by the Tinkers, still sturdy despite its wear and coating of ash.

	He went to work, rebinding a corner with copper wire. Various items often got lost along the shore, but they had a way of becoming useful—repurposed into quiet legacy.

	Once the lantern had been restored, he moved on. And then to the next. And the next. And the next...

	By mid morning, Caelum had completed the first of his daily tasks. Around this time, the others would begin to stir. He used the lull to recover before his later duties. Today, he felt like sketching.

	After dropping off his bag in the large, hollow log near the banks of the lagoon, he retrieved a sheet of parchment and a dry, sharpened twig. He settled into a reclined position among the gnarled roots of the log—his chair, bed, hammock, depending on the moment.

	Once comfortable, he coaxed a small ember from the tip of the twig for just a moment before snuffing it out with a wave, sending smoke dancing upward. In the distance—behind the rising wisps—he noticed a subtle and familiar stirring.

	[i]Magnolia.[/i]

	His gaze shifted across the lagoon. She emerged from her cottage, the little frog trailing behind her in uneven hops.

	There was something in the way she stepped—measured, almost like she was trying not to wake the day too quickly.

	Caelum recognized it. That quiet negotiation with morning. A small smile settled in, as he watched her path with the kind of attention reserved for things that ask nothing but still matter.

	He let the charcoal rest against the parchment.  Not to capture her—just the way the Hollow held its breath when she moved.