Warm light filtered through linen curtains, dancing gently across wooden floors. A breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby orchard, their branches swaying in rhythm with the hum of a child's song.
Aeon stirred on a couch by the window, eyes blinking open to a world bathed in golden calm.
He smelled bread baking. He heard birdsong. And then—
Laughter.
Bright. Pure. Familiar.
He sat up slowly. The ache in his chest wasn't pain. It was something stranger.
Stillness.
The house was small but welcoming — beams worn smooth by time, a hearth with fading embers, pictures drawn by a child pinned to the wall. He walked barefoot across the floor. Every surface breathed familiarity.
Outside, past the open doorway, an orchard bloomed.
And there, running barefoot through the grass, was a little girl.
She couldn't have been older than five or six. Her hair, tousled and soft, caught the sunlight in golden strands. She turned mid-run, beaming at him.
"Papa!"
Aeon stopped in the doorway. His hand gripped the frame without meaning to.
She ran to him without hesitation, arms flung wide.
He knelt. And held her.
Time passed without weight. He helped her gather flowers. They fed the birds. She showed him a drawing — the two of them, standing beneath a vast tree. Her fingers still had smudges of crayon.
She told him stories. Asked him questions. Called him Papa again and again.
Aeon answered, smiling.
The part of him that knew this was a dream… fell quiet.
He didn't care.
Elsewhere — somewhere deeper in the dream — Cobb stood at the edge of a meadow. He had followed the distortion through the dream-layer, slipped sideways into a space that felt constructed but was not his.
He saw the house. The girl.
And Aeon.
The peace was so perfect, it frightened him.
The girl spotted him first.
She tilted her head curiously, then waved.
"Hi! Are you one of Papa's friends?"
Cobb hesitated. "I… yes."
She smiled, satisfied. "Do you want to come draw with us?"
He nodded, walking slowly toward them. Aeon watched him approach with no alarm, only quiet welcome.
"She made us a world," Aeon said.
"Who?" Cobb asked.
"My daughter," Aeon whispered.
They sat beneath the tree.
The girl nestled beside Aeon, doodling with focused intensity.
Cobb looked at him.
"This is yours, isn't it?"
Aeon nodded.
"Why did it take this form?"
"I don't know," Aeon said.
But he did.
He didn't want to say it aloud.
"You told me to see what was real," Cobb said.
"I know."
"You told me to let go."
"I know."
Cobb leaned forward. "You know this isn't real."
Aeon's voice trembled. "But it could be. Maybe part of her… is still here."
The girl hummed a lullaby as she colored.
Cobb looked at him carefully.
"She feels real because you gave her everything."
Aeon swallowed hard. "That's not the same as having her."
"No," Cobb said. "But she gave you something too."
Aeon looked down.
The girl had drawn a gate. A world. A sun. And at the center — him.
She looked up at him suddenly, serious.
"You're sad again."
"I'm okay," Aeon whispered.
She reached up and touched his chest.
"Don't go too far, okay?"
The wind shifted.
The orchard flickered — not in destruction, but like a reflection on water.
Aeon stood.
Cobb stood with him.
"You know what you have to do," Cobb said gently.
"I won't forget her."
"You never did."
Aeon turned.
The girl was gone.
Just the drawing remained.
And a warmth in his chest that wasn't pain.
Not anymore.