There's a sense of wonder in the air this beautiful morning. Everything seems sharper somehow. The sunrise seemed spectacular - the view of it breathtaking, as though it was the first time anyone has seen one. A drop of water on the petal of a late-blooming rose is entrancing. The scent of the sea has even old, salty sailors raising their faces to the wind and inhaling deeply.
It is an absolutely glorious morning, and everything seems so much brighter than it did the day before. Like a huge weight has been lifted. Like there's time to deal with all the things that must be dealt with. Like that grim sense of purpose is finally starting to fade.
It feels a bit like hope.
Not that everything's perfect, of course. The Stone Grove has withered - every plant in there brown and crackling, which is incredibly unusual - indeed it is not something that has been seen since the creation of the Stone Grove.
And there seems to have been some kind of earthquake in the night too, that split the Eidolon Gallery in two causing who knows how much property damage and trouble for the artists displaying their work there. But even so, there's the sense that these things are fixable. They can get better. They will.
Even in troubled times, hope endures.