Age caught up with them eventually.
Knee replacements. Reading glasses. Mornings that started later and ended earlier. They moved to a smaller house—easier to maintain, closer to the children.
But their love never slowed.
They still held hands. Still kissed goodnight. Still found ways to surprise each other—a new composition, a handwritten story, small gestures that meant everything.
"You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," Kai told her one morning, her hair gray, her face lined with years.
"You're blind," she laughed.
"Blind with love. Best kind of blind."
They spent days in the garden, reading, talking, being together. The busy years were behind them. Now there was just this—peace, companionship, love that had weathered everything.
"Is this what we were working toward?" Lina asked. "All those years of chaos?"
"I think so." Kai looked at the garden, the sunlight, her face. "This. Us. Peace."
"Worth it."
"Every second."