Five years have passed. The house on the edge of the city was now a living, chaotic, but indescribably happy home. Emilia was seven years old, a self-confident Secondary brass with Alexander's dark hair and Lena's sharp mind. Lucas, five years old, was the unsettled adventurer who knocked every tree in the garden. Elias, four years old, was the quietest, with large, contemplative eyes and one Smiles that all made them melt. And then there was the little Sophia, two years old — the fourth child, a cunning Girl with Lenas Locken and Alexander's crashed chin. Lena stood in the kitchen, highly pregnant with the fifth child, and stirred in a Pot while Sophia hung on her leg and called “Mama, high!” Alexander came in, Lucas and Elias in tow, the two boys full of dirt from the garden. He looked at Lena, smiled at this warm, deep smile that only belonged to her, and took Sophia on his arm. “You look tired, my love,” he said quietly and kissed her temple. “So I take over?” Lena
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