She moved across the room with a grace that felt ancient. When she placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight of it was a revelation. It was the "Mother Warmth" he had read about in stories but never felt in his marrow—a fierce, unconditional presence that demanded nothing but his existence. She didn't ask about his battles or the scars he hid beneath his tunic. She simply leaned down, her breath a soft hum against the crown of his head, and whispered that the world could wait until morning.
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