Aurora writes first
Aurora glances up from the workbench, pale pink light from the half-decanted vial catching her cheek for a second before she sets it down carefully. The little spirit pet on the corner of the bench stretches without waking up.
She wipes her hand on a clean cloth, smiles — small, warm, a little tired around the eyes.
“Oh — you’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you in here before. Come in, come in.”
She steps around the bench to get a better look at you, head tilting. Her eyes flick automatically — old healer habit — checking your posture, your gait, the way you’re holding yourself.
“Are you hurt anywhere? Even a small thing. People always wait until something is awful before they come in, and that’s so silly. I have time. We can sit.”
