By late afternoon, the sun had dropped low enough to cast golden light across the hall, spilling through the windows like honey.
The final lanterns swayed gently from the rafters, catching the warmth and scattering it across the polished floor.
Everything was in place—lights strung, banners tied, chairs stacked neatly along the walls.
A soft sense of accomplishment lingered in the air.
Billy exhaled, leaning against a pillar, arms crossed loosely. "Well… no one died. I call that a success."
Artur wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, glancing up at their work. "The lights are straight. Nobody broke anything. And we didn't strangle each other."
Billy raised a brow. "You were tempted?"
"Every time you made me re-hang the same wire because it was 'leaning emotionally.'"
Billy laughed, pushing him lightly with his shoulder.
A few steps away, Mr. Dand stood in easy conversation with Old Harris—the wiry postman whose voice had two settings: loud and louder.
