The first night home was too quiet.
Not peaceful. Not comforting. Quiet that pressed inward, that asked to be examined rather than trusted.
Aria noticed it long before dawn.
Elena slept in the cradle beside the bed, her breathing soft and rhythmic, each rise and fall anchoring Aria in the present. The lamplight cast a gentle glow across the room, catching on the pale curtains, the smooth wood of the crib, and the faint lavender scent drifting in from the open window.
This room had been built for beginnings.
Yet Aria's instincts refused to rest.
Luca lay beside her, one arm extended instinctively toward the cradle even in sleep. His breathing was light and controlled, as if some part of him remained on watch no matter how exhausted his body became.
Aria shifted slightly, careful not to wake him. Elena stirred, making a small sound, and Aria immediately lifted her, pressing her close, feeling warmth and weight and undeniable life settle against her chest.
