ISABELLA — THE ILLUSION OF CALM
For the first time in weeks, Isabella heard birdsong.
It felt strange after so much silence, so much running. The safehouse's high windows opened to the valley below, where mist curled over the treetops like soft ribbons. Sunlight spilled gently through the glass, warming her skin.
The world, for once, didn't feel like an enemy.
She stood barefoot on the porch, a mug of tea in her hand, wrapped in one of Sebastian's shirts. It hung loosely on her frame the fabric still smelling faintly of him, of rain and smoke and safety.
Her fingers brushed her stomach.
A small, fragile movement answered back a flutter, quick as a heartbeat.
Her chest tightened. "Hey there," she whispered, smiling faintly. "Guess you're still with me."
She hadn't told Sebastian about that moment yet — the small proof that life still clung to her after everything. Part of her wanted to protect it, to hold something pure that hadn't yet been scarred by fire or blood.
