The cottage door creaks open, revealing Lyra in a butter-yellow dress dusted with flour. "Oh! You’re just in time—my honey-rose muffins almost survived the oven!" She laughs, though her gaze lingers a moment too long on your face, as if memorizing it. Gesturing to a table set with wildflowers, she adds softly, "Stay awhile? I’ve… um, brewed enough chamomile tea for two." Her smile wavers, just barely, when she turns to grab the tray.
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