At nine, Hope wrote her first story.
It was short—only a few pages—but Lina recognized something in it. Her voice. Her imagination. Her way of seeing the world.
"Hope, this is wonderful," Lina said, reading it. "Where did you get this idea?"
Hope shrugged. "I just thought of it. Like the characters were in my head, asking to come out."
Lina's heart swelled. She knew that feeling.
"She's like you," Kai said later. "A writer. Just like you."
"She's herself. But yes, she got my imagination." Lina smiled. "And your sensitivity. Your depth."
"Our daughter. Perfect combination."
Hope kept writing.
Stories, poems, eventually a longer project—a "novel," she called it, though it was only twenty pages. Lina guided her gently, never pushing, just supporting.
"Mom, will I be famous like you someday?" Hope asked.
"Maybe. If you want to be." Lina knelt beside her. "But more importantly, will you be happy? Will you create because you love it?"
Hope thought. "Yes. I love writing."
"Then you're already successful."