“Your father wouldn’t want you talking to me,” Olilly says in challenge as tears mist her eyes, the grim reality of the world intruding. The never-ending exclusion of her life. He’ll leave.

But Kirin’s gaze solidifies on hers, his obviously rattled nerves giving way to something that looks like rebellion. “I know he wouldn’t,” he admits.

Hurt bubbles up inside Olilly. Hurt she’s been keeping down for far too long. “Your father,” she says. “He has that sign. The same kind of sign they had in the West.”

Kirin nods, remorse now flooding his gaze. “I don’t believe any of that,” he says stridently. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Lots of people aren’t. They call us names.”

“Well, I don’t. And I never will. And I’m not the only one here who feels that way.”

There. All of it, out in the open.

A sudden lightness softens Olilly’s heart. And a sense of possibility, like a window being thrown open deep inside her, something entirely new streaming in.

“Would you walk with me to the pier?” he asks, seeming suddenly lit up as well, his mouth tilting into the edge of a smile. “You’re the color of the festival. You should be part of it.”

Olilly smiles demurely, happiness welling inside her in response to his earnestness, and yet, an edge of the pain remains. Her smile falters. “It’s not my festival...”

“Yes, it is,” he cuts in, emphatic. “You’re part of the Eastern Realm now. It belongs to you too.”

“It’s a kissing festival,” she says shyly and boldly all at the same time, a flush overtaking her, not quite believing she just said such a thing. Feeling like she’s just shown him her recent imaginings of what it would be like to hold his hand, to kiss him. How she’s noticed Kir Lyyo’s intelligent eyes watching her from the restaurant across the street as she watched him back, liking his quiet way.

Kirin raises an eyebrow, as if stunned by her voicing what, perhaps, he’s all too aware of, and Olilly is newly charmed by the way his hair sticks out at odd angles and wonders if it would be soft to the touch. He’s so lovely. And she imagines kissing Kirin would be lovely too.

“We could walk through the Voling Garden Plaza,” he offers, tripping over the words. “There are dancers and puppeteers and all sorts of food.”

Olilly’s brow knots. “But...your father.”

Kirin holds out his hand, serious now. “He’s wrong. About all of it. And we should go see the festival.”

Olilly stares at lovely, rebellious Kirin’s hand, his palm up in invitation as something deeply knotted inside her loosens for the first time ever. And there it is, suddenly singing inside her, like a bird too long caged, taking wing.

Hope.

Hope for the future.