The Heartroot Tree had changed. Once a symbol of timeless strength, it now bore silver blossoms—each one representing a fallen soul.
Every morning, fairies from across the realms gathered beneath it. They left offerings: feathers, ribbons, handwritten wishes. They sang not of battle, but of stories—of love lost and found, of friendships forged in darkness.
Lucky stood beneath its boughs, listening.
A young fairy girl approached, no older than ten, and handed her a tiny drawing.
It showed Lucky standing with wings outstretched, a golden sun above her and the forest blooming below.
"I drew you saving the world," the child said.
Lucky knelt. "You helped too."
And the child beamed.