Miren Hollow was quiet by design. No shouting markets. No distant thunder of hooves. Just wind in the wheat, water in the brook, and the occasional laughter of children chasing chickens.
But every seventh night, the quiet broke.
They called it Heartsong. A gathering not for worship or festival, but for remembering—songs passed down through generations, sung around the fire near the village circle. No instruments, no stage. Just voices.
Elira took Eon by the hand that evening.
"You don't have to sing," she told him, "but you should listen. It's how we hold on to the ones we've lost."
That caught him. Lost?
He didn't know what that meant—not really—but something in the weight of her voice made him curious.
They walked under lanterns made of colored glass, each one glowing soft and low. Villagers sat on stone benches or the grass. Nivi ran ahead and joined a group of other children, who swayed with excitement.
Then a woman began to sing.
Her voice was cracked with age, but strong. The song wasn't in any language Eon recognized, and yet—he understood. Not the words. The feeling. It was a lullaby of memory. Of holding hands now gone. Of dancing in the rain. Of saying goodbye.
More voices joined. Some in harmony, some stumbling. No perfection. Just honesty.
Eon stood still, overwhelmed. He felt it rise in his chest—an ache without injury. A warmth with no fire. His eyes stung, and when he touched his cheek, he found it wet.
Elira noticed. "Your first tears?"
"I think so," he whispered. "Why does it hurt?"
"Because that's how we know it's real."
Eon looked up at the night sky. He did not remember the stars being this close. The heavens he had once shaped now felt like strangers.
And yet here, among flawed voices and flickering lanterns, he felt something greater than divinity.
He felt human