Tobias stays rooted to the cold glass, not daring even to blink. The tiny figure at the oak root holds equally still — nothing moving but those two violet eyes, which seem to breathe faintly in and out like candle flames behind a shutter. A minute passes. Two. Then, without hurry, the figure reaches into the furrowed bark beside it and draws out a thread of light, golden and hair-thin, and begins to wind it around one of the oak's gnarled roots in a slow, deliberate spiral. The gesture feels too careful to be accidental — like a knot tied for someone else to find. When the last loop is set, the figure sits back and turns those ember-bright eyes toward the window again. Waiting. Tobias's breath fogs the glass in a slow cloud. He is not sure how much longer he can stay still.