Kyra is growing well

The snow was gone. In its place, something softer — sunlight, slipping through the pine branches in golden threads, catching Kyra in a backlight so perfect it felt almost staged. She glowed. Every feather lit from behind, every movement traced in warm light against the dark of the forest. It felt like spring. It felt like the world had skipped ahead of itself, impatient for something new. But there were only two days left until Christmas. Two days. And yet there was Kyra — luminous, unhurried, entirely her own — reminding me, as she always does, that beauty has no interest in calendars.