Marron had not committed to the reset.
She also had not dismissed it.
The idea sat with her like a sealed jar on a high shelf—visible, heavy with potential, but not yet opened. She'd learned enough about herself to know that forcing a decision while tired only led to regret later.
So she worked.
Not because the work needed doing. Because routine still steadied her.
The inn's back room smelled faintly of herbs and old wood. The Food Cart rested nearby, quiet but attentive, its presence familiar enough now that Marron barely noticed the comfort of it until it was gone. Lucy hovered on the table, glow soft and observant, tendrils lazily tracing patterns in the air.
Marron was chopping roots for soup she didn't particularly want.
Her knife moved cleanly. Precisely. Too precisely.
"You're thinking again," Lucy pulsed.
"Always," Marron replied.
