Lucian woke before dawn and didn't move.
That was new. Normally he was up, pacing, reading, creating, doing. But this morning he lay on his bed with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. The cracked one. The one with the spider web that stretched from corner to corner, empty now, waiting.
He was happy.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind that made you laugh or shout or dance. The quiet kind. The kind that settled into your bones and made the air feel lighter.
He hadn't felt this in months. Years, maybe. He'd been searching, chasing, following trails that went nowhere. He'd forgotten what it felt like to have direction. Not just hope—direction.
Finn stirred on his bed, rolled over, squinted at the window. "You're awake."
"I'm always awake."
"You're never just lying there."
Lucian didn't answer. He kept staring at the ceiling.
