The weather changed before Edward did.
One morning, he woke to birdsong and warmth in the air. Spring had slipped into the village while no one was watching. Snowmelt rushed down the gutters, and the cobbled streets dried out in long, uneven streaks. It was the kind of season where everyone suddenly remembered how to smile again.
Even the townsfolk seemed lighter. Mr. Orwen at the bakery began giving out the smaller rolls for free. A traveling juggler set up outside the town square and made children laugh with limp scarves and crooked teeth. Edward watched all of it with quiet interest but rarely lingered.
His days followed a rhythm now. Mornings at the library. Afternoons split between repairs in Leonard's workshop and test sketches on the hill. Evenings at home, often with his father watching silently from across the table.
"Your hands are steadier," his father said one night, eyeing the joints Edward was whittling from pine.
"I'm learning," Edward replied.
His father didn't answer, but after a while, he handed Edward his own carving knife. The good one. Just for that evening.
---
At the library, Mira had begun speaking more, though only in short bursts.
"You're calculating lift wrong," she told him one morning.
Edward blinked. "What?"
"Your scale. You're not accounting for weight-to-span ratio."
She handed him a chart. It was dense, scrawled in tight lettering and full of numbers he hadn't seen before.
"Where did this come from?"
"Merchant's log. From a coastal cliff town. Kite ships."
"Kite ships?"
"They used wind sleds over sea fog. Lift and drag still apply."
Edward smiled. "You're full of surprises."