LOGINZoeThe nursery walls are the colour of fresh cream, soft and warm, catching the afternoon light that spills through the window like liquid gold. I stand in the centre of the room, my hands resting on my stomach, watching Liam wrestle with the crib instructions spread across the floor like a paper puzzle he is determined to solve. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line of concentration, and I bite back a smile as he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse."You know," I say, my voice light, "you could ask for help."He looks up, a screwdriver clutched in one hand, his dark hair falling across his forehead. "I am not asking for help. I am winning.""You are losing.""I am strategizing."I laugh, the sound filling the empty room, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the sun filtering through the glass. This is what we have built. This is what we have fought for. A home. A family. A future.Eleanor appea
Liam The wooden box sits on the table between us, its surface worn smooth by years of handling, its contents finally at rest. I trace the edge of the lid with my finger, feeling the grain of the wood, the small imperfections that tell the story of its journey. Inside are the letters, the photographs, the fragments of a past that no longer hold power over us. Zoe is beside me, her hand resting on the box, her grey eyes fixed on the closed lid. She does not speak, but I feel the weight of her presence, the quiet strength of her companionship. We have been through so much together, have carried so many burdens, and have uncovered so many secrets. And now, we are finally ready to set them down. "Liam," she says, her voice soft. "What happens now?" I turn to look at her, at the woman who has become my reason, my purpose, my home. "Now we live. We build. We choose who we want to be." She meets my gaze, her grey eyes steady. "And who do you want to be?" I reach out and take her hand, m
ZoeThe flour dusts my fingers like fine snow as I press my palms into the soft dough, folding and turning, feeling the elasticity build beneath my touch. The kitchen is warm, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, and the scent of yeast and woodsmoke mingles in the air. Outside the window, the garden stretches toward the grey sky, its bare soil waiting for the seeds we have not yet planted.Eleanor sits at the table, her needles clicking a steady rhythm, a half-finished blanket pooling in her lap. She has been knitting for weeks now, working on something she refuses to describe. I have stopped asking. Some mysteries are better left unsolved until they are ready to be revealed."You have a gentle hand," she says, her gaze fixed on her work. "Your grandmother had the same touch. She could make bread rise with nothing but patience and warmth."I smile, shaping the dough into a smooth ball. "I never knew her.""She would have loved you." Eleanor looks up, her grey eyes soft. "She would
LiamThe silence in the cottage is not the same as it was before. It is not heavy with secrets or choked with things left unsaid. It is the silence of two people who have finally stopped running, who have laid their cards on the table and are learning to breathe again.I sit at the table, the letters spread before me like a map of a past I never knew existed. The ink is faded, the paper worn, but the words are still sharp, still cutting. My father's handwriting. Eleanor's handwriting. Two people who loved each other and kept it hidden from everyone, even from themselves.I trace the curve of a letter, my finger following the path of his pen. He wrote with urgency, the words pressed deep into the paper as if he was afraid they would not be read.If you are reading this, I am already gone. I am sorry for the secrets. I am sorry for the lies. I am sorry I could not protect you.I fold the letter and set it aside. The weight of it is small, but the weight of its meaning is not.Zoe is sle
ZoeThe letters lie scattered across the table, their edges soft and worn, their ink faded to the colour of dried blood. I pick one up, my fingers trembling, and I read the words my mother wrote decades ago, words she never had the courage to speak aloud. Each sentence is a fragment of a life I never knew existed, a story buried beneath layers of silence and regret.Liam sits across from me, his dark eyes fixed on the letters, his hands clasped in front of him. He has not spoken since we began reading, but I feel the weight of his presence, the quiet strength of his companionship.I fold the letter and set it aside. The paper is warm from my hands, as if the words themselves still carry the heat of the woman who wrote them."She loved him," I say. "Your father. She loved him."Liam nods, a slow, almost imperceptible movement. "And he loved her."I look down at the stack of letters, at the evidence of a love that was never meant to be discovered. "They kept it hidden. They kept it from
LiamThe photograph trembles in my grip, its edges worn smooth by years of handling, its surface creased with the memory of countless fingers. I stare at the image, at the woman standing in the garden, her hand resting on the shoulder of the young girl beside her. Eleanor. Zoe. They are smiling, their faces bright with a joy I have never seen in either of them.But it is not the women who hold my attention. It is the figure in the background, barely visible through the foliage, his face half-obscured by shadow. I know that posture. I know the way he stands, the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. I have seen it in my own reflection, in the mirror that hangs in the hallway of my childhood home.My father."Liam?" Zoe's voice cuts through the silence. "What is it?"I look up, my dark eyes meeting her grey ones. "Your mother knew my father. She knew him well."The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. Zoe takes the photograph from my hands, her fingers brushin







