The man slept for three days.
Elira watched him from across the room, her hands never still—always kneading dough, mending clothes, brushing Nivi's hair. But her eyes returned again and again to the stranger in her spare bed. He looked peaceful, too peaceful, like something carved rather than born.
"Do you think he dreams?" Nivi asked on the second day, curled in her blanket near the hearth.
"I don't know," Elira said. "Maybe."
She hadn't told anyone in the village. Not yet. Not because she meant to lie, but because she didn't know what to say. "A man fell from the sky and my daughter found him. He doesn't bleed. He doesn't speak. But he breathes." What would Elder Callen say to that? Or the others, with their quiet fear of the unusual?
She kept thinking he would vanish. Like a dream fading with the sun. But still, he slept.
On the third morning, as the frost melted from the windows and the roosters cried in the distance, he opened his eyes.
They were the color of starlight—not silver, not gray, but something ancient and far away. His gaze darted across the room, confused but not frightened.
Elira was holding a cup of tea when she noticed.
"You're awake," she said simply.
He blinked once. Then again. His mouth opened, but only a breath came out—no words, only air.
"I'm Elira. This is my home. You've been asleep for some time."
He sat up, unsteady. Looked at his hands. Flexed his fingers like he was seeing them for the first time. "…Eon," he whispered, as if tasting the name.
"Elira," he repeated. Then looked to the small shape behind her.
"Nivi," she said brightly. "I'm the one who found you."
Eon blinked again. His lips trembled with something new—something fragile.
"…Thank you," he said, and it was the first time he had ever meant it.