The rest they took didn't last long—not even enough for Luke to fully settle onto the bed. A series of gentle knocks sounded from the other side of the door, followed by Sister Maria's voice, muffled but warm.
"Luke? Ilyrana? The sun is setting soon. So it's time to set the table."
Luke pushed himself up, exchanging a small smile with Ilyrana before opening the door. Sister Maria greeted them with the same patient, motherly energy as always, then guided them back toward the dining hall. The soft glow of lanterns lit the corridor, and the scent of the stew they'd made drifted from the kitchen.
Setting the table felt strangely nostalgic. Luke found himself slipping into old habits without thinking—laying out the plates, straightening the cups, aligning the spoons so they looked presentable. Ilyrana worked beside him, mirroring his motions with careful precision, while Sister Maria bustled between them, arranging bread and placing pitchers of water along the centre.
