Aija traced the worn inscription on the cathedral door, her blue claws following each carved letter. For three hundred years, she had studied the mortals who passed through these stone arches. They aged, they changed, they died—all things she could not do while trapped in this cursed form. She wanted to understand them, really understand what it meant to have a life that ended. The priests had left her their love poems, but words on parchment only told her so much. She needed to watch the living, to see how they spent their brief, burning years. Her wings folded tight against her back as she stepped away from the door, ready to begin another day of careful observation. The morning sun cut through the trees as Aija walked beyond the cathedral grounds. She had read every poem, studied every prayer, but the words never explained the true weight of mortal life. She needed facts—birth dates, death dates, the exact span of years humans were given. Mt. Sinai Memorial Gardens stood quiet under the fading moonlight, stone markers stretching in neat rows. She knelt beside the nearest grave, her tail coiling behind her. The numbers carved into the stone told her stories the poems never could. A structure caught her eye through the trees—glass panels reflecting the dawn light. The Luminescent Greenhouse stood alone, its metal frame holding walls of clear glass. Inside, strange plants glowed softly in the dim morning air. This place could work. She pressed her clawed hand against the cool glass, leaving no mark. Here she could gather her notes, organize her findings about naturally born lives. A proper study needed a proper place. She continued walking until smoke rose above the tree line. An outdoor fire pit sat in a clearing, wooden benches arranged in a circle around the stones. Voices drifted from nearby—villagers beginning their day. This was where they gathered, where they talked. Aija settled onto a bench at the edge of the circle, her wings tucked close. If she stayed quiet and listened, they might speak of births, of families, of how their lives began. She had her memorial garden for endings and her greenhouse for study. Now she just needed their stories.

Aija pulled her notebook from her belt and opened it to a blank page. She needed to start somewhere simple. The villagers at the fire pit had spoken of birthdays, anniversaries, seasons of life. She wrote the first question at the top: "How long do humans live?" Below it, she added another: "What makes each life different?" Her claws made scratching sounds against the paper. The memorial garden had given her numbers, but numbers alone felt empty. She needed to watch how mortals moved through their years, how they chose to spend their time. Her tail curled around the bench leg as she wrote one more line: "Begin with observation." She closed the notebook and stood, her wings catching the morning breeze. The work had started. The villagers had mentioned a place where births were recorded—a pool hidden deeper in the forest. Aija followed a narrow path until she found it. The Mystic Reflection Pool of Serenity sat beneath pale cherry blossoms, its surface mirror-smooth. She knelt at the water's edge and watched images shimmer into view. Birth certificates floated up from the depths, showing names, dates, and family lines. Each one recorded the exact moment a mortal life began. She traced the dates with her claw, calculating the spans between birth and death. Some lived twenty years, others ninety. The differences fascinated her. Back at the greenhouse, Aija needed a place to organize her findings. She found a round table outside, its surface already marked with potion stains and tool scratches. The Enchanter's Round Table would serve her purpose well. She laid out the notes she'd copied from the pool, arranging them by age at death. A jeweled water jug sat nearby, its surface catching the afternoon light. She filled it from a stream and watered the glowing plants inside the greenhouse. The plants would wait. Her research came first. She returned to the table and opened her notebook again. Three sources now: the memorial garden for endings, the reflection pool for beginnings, and the fire pit for the living. She had the framework she needed. Her claws tapped against the jeweled jug as she thought. Tomorrow she would return to the villagers and ask them directly about their lives. The facts were clear now—humans lived in decades, not centuries. What remained was understanding how they filled those brief years with meaning.