Tavrin sits at the bend of the butterfly overpass – where the planks curve between the old greenhouse and Mirthlin's tea ledge.
The path’s barely wide enough for two feet, but the butterflies use it anyway. Every day, same route. East to west in the morning. West to east by afternoon. Always stopping to land on Tavrin’s rim.
She never minds. They leave small golden dots behind – tiny footprints she never wipes away.
This morning, one dropped a child’s shoelace.
It’s still tied in a bow.
She figures they’ll be back for it.