Nestled in the heart of the forest, a stone cottage, enchanting with it's roof draped in creeping ivy and wild, deep red roses comes into view.
It harmonizes with the nature: tall trees, shrubs, and wildflowers surround it, while the trimmed grass and earth–floored narrow clearing offer a tranquil woodland retreat.
"The house is aged," Apphia says, pausing her tread and glancing at Neva. "But I hope it will be agreeable,"
"It's lovely," Neva replies softly, her eyes fixed on the mystical cottage.
"Thank you, we'll be comfortable here," she adds, meeting Apphia's gaze.
"Mumma!" Isaiah calls, running toward Neva.
"We have been waiting for you a long time," Apphia says, a warm smile spreading accross her thin lips.
Isaiah reaches Neva and clings to her arm, while Rhean, standing on her other side and holding his mother's hand, eyes the younger boy with slight disdain etched into his prettily carved, crumpled brows.
"It was five days ago when the messenger appeared in my dream and revealed that you were to return home."
Apphia, still smiling, places her hands over her heart. "Oh, how greatly I rejoiced and shared the blessed word with the villagers."
"We have all prepared for your arrival to feel at home here. For as long as your stay, you shall be in our care—your comfort is our joy."
Neva looks at her, eyes gentle—humbled, grateful, and still astonished by it all.
"Come, my child. The weather is miserable," Apphia says, briefly glancing at the gloomy sky, where billowing dark clouds threaten to unleash a flood at any moment.
The wind grows stronger, a harsher whoosing sound rising through the forest.
Apphia's hair is tiedly wrapped in a bun, and only her skirt flutters with the wind.
"We shall be safe inside," she continues, "and fit the pieces together in these borrowed hours granted to us."
"Sure," Neva replies, glancing at Rhett standing next to her.
He raises a brow, and—understanding the silent words in her seeking, bright expressive eyes—nods at her in affirmation.
"Come along," Apphia says, heading toward the cottage with the child holding her hand.
"Is he your grandson, Nana?" Neva asks, following behind with her sons—one on each side—as they climb up the short, wide stone stairs leading to the arched wooden door.
"Verily," Apphia beams.
She stops and turns to Neva, "The only grandson my martyred son and daughter-in-law left me."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Neva says softly, stopping before Apphia.
Her eyes shift to the meek boy. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asks with a gentle smile, caressing the child's head with a tender touch.
The child is slender, probably half an inch taller than Rhean, with short, curled brown hair and chubby, flushed cheeks. Neva finds herself melting as the boy looks up at her with wide, innocent chocolates eyes.
"His name is Adam," Apphia says instead. "My grandson was born mute and deaf."
A knot tightens in Neva's chest.
Her eyes flicker with sadness and emphathy before she quickly veils them, gazing affectionately at the beautiful boy burdened with such a cruel fate.
Apphia opens the door and steps inside.
"Take the children to a different room," Rhett says to Ace as Neva enters the cottage with the boys.
"Yes, Boss," Ace says, his eyes dull, his tone void of vigor and full of hopelessness.
What a catastrophe—he, a once–great secret agent, now reduced to a glorified babysitter.
"You're coming with me," Rhett speaks to Ishmael, who walks straight past into the cottage without so much as glance, his daughter cradled in his arms.
Inaya's chin rests on his shoulder, her sleepy, blinking eyes glancing at Rhett.
"Keep a close eye on the surroundings," Rhett instructs Ace, his gaze sweeping the forest, a frown settled in his brows.
"Roger that," Ace replies.
He's the last to step into the house, closing the door firmly behind him.
---
The children are settled in one of the three bedrooms with Ace.
Meanwhile, Apphia, Neva, Rhett and Ishmael sit in the parlor on comfortable sofas made entirely of bamboo.
The velvety, square pillows arranged vertically are handmade, beautiful floral patterns weaving accross—and a long, flatter blue pillow is stretched across the bench beneath for extra support.
"I haven't yet introduced you to my family," Neva begins.
"This is Rhett, my husband," she says, placing a hand on Rhett's thigh. He sits beside her, on the three–seater bench facing Apphia.
Apphia smiles and inclines her head in acknowledgement, and Rhett returns the gesture with a respectful nod.
"And he's Ishmael," Neva says, rather emotionlessly, not even sparing him a glance. "You know him."
Ishmael, seated on the single chair next to Apphia, watches Neva with a quiet, unreadable expression.
Inside, his heart is sour, a lump rising in his throat.
He marvels at how she acts so bitterly, sees him so nonchalantly—as if they never happened. As if they they weren't perfect, completely in love with each other... until that day, not even a month ago.
Now it feels as if he's woken up from a dream, cold water flooding his room, drowning him as the reality sinks in.
He's in utter disbelief at how she acts as though he's only a stranger, as if she never knew him, the love and warmth she shared with him.
There's no change in her attitude even after she recovered her memories of Miraeth with him—which he had hoped might spark some shift in her feelings toward him.
If it weren't for the presence of Inaya and Isaiah, he could've almost believed all of them to be only a wishful dream. A figment of his desperate heart.
She clings to that man as if her life depends on him.
Why? She barely knows him.
It's him who has been with her longer than he ever could, knew her better than anyone could. It should be him in that place.
That man is a passing wind—meant to drift through her life and be forgotten.
But he stood idle and allowed the wind to turn into a storm, a full–blown tornado—wrecking everything he built, tearing her, his Neva apart from him.
"And the young man with the children is Ace, our friend," Neva continues.
Her voice is soft, her smile is beautiful as she speaks so naturally about her child with him. She calls him beautiful.
And at that moment everything about her glows in a maternal light that leaves him breathless.
Her face is alight with warmth, untouched by bitterness, untouched by him.
And he aches—not just with longing, but with the unbearable weight of knowing he once held that light in his arms.
Now, he can only watch from the shadows. He dares not reach for her, even if she's only in his arms length, for he has lost the blessing of even brushing against the light that now circles around her like a halo.
But then, he catches a moment of hesitation in her voice.
The slight purse of her lips, the breath she draws before naming them. His chest tightens.
Then her eyes shift, and they meet his.
She sees him. But not the way she used to.
No spark, no softness, no trace of the love they once shared.
She looks away.
"Isaiah and Inaya, they are my children with Ishmael." Neva says, plainly, so gently.
Something inside him twists, and he can barely breathe. She speaks his most beautiful truth as though it's merely a fact.
He lowers his gaze at the floor, his eyes burning, tears threatening to fall—for he's aware she's ashamed of him.
Of their children.
Ashamed of the way they were brought into the world.
Neva glimpses the shift of expression in Apphia's face. Her delighted smile falters, shifting into confusion... skepticism.
"How is that possible?" Apphia asks the question, soft but heavy.
But Neva cannot unsee the doubt in Apphia's eyes, struggling to stomach this absurdity. She feels the silent judgment—creeping in.
She must find her disgusting.
Unfaithful.
An adulterer.
Neva looks down, fidgeting with her hands, as she does so often when she's anxious, when words don't come easy.
"It's complicated, Nana," she says quietly. "So much has happened..."
"I will be patient and listen to everything you have to say," Apphia reassures, her voice soft.
Rhett reaches for her hand and stills her fidgeting fingers. His touch is steady, grounding.
Neva finds warmth in him, and she holds onto it. And as their eyes thread, she feels the light and gentle assurance in his gaze.
Neva takes a breath in, deep.
She has practiced a million times over to put her life into words. In her sleep. In whispered prayers. In the active moments.
For she knows the judgeful world that will condemn her. Because of all the choices and the mistakes she made. But, she never really had a say when it came to Ishmael, nor the grudgeful way of the world.
Even still, after all the rehearsals she finds it extremely difficult, like a fraud, trying to explain a truth no one will fully ever understand.
But with a trembling voice she starts, "It's true, Ishmael is Inaya and Isaiah's biological father," for this isn't just a story.
It's a testimony of all that she's been through,
Of the faith she never let go.
And the Lord never let go of her,
When they tried drowning her.
And Rhett never let go of her,
When Ishmael tried enthralling her.
A bleak world so tragic and consuming,
A love so great He gave her miracles.
A million–in–one husband,
Healthy, beautiful children,
Trustworthy friends.
A family bigger than she could've ever hoped.
"Once, I believed I was happily married to him," she continues, meeting Apphia's gaze.
"I will tell you what I know of my life from the people I trust," her voice is firm, steady and confident.
"Because I have not retained any memories of my own."
Apphia's eyes—once deep brown, clouded with age looks at her with a silent assurance, urging Neva to go on.
"I lost the earliest memories of my childhood in an accident, and it left me orphaned.
That is what my aunt and uncle said." She pauses, swallowing the bitterness.
"They denied Miraeth ever existed, like so many others. I don't believe them."
She glances down for a moment, collecting herself. "By God's grace, fragments of my past have begun returning. And they anchor me to this place. They prove I was once a child here—this was once my home."
"My aunt and uncle raised me—from when exactly, I can't recall. When I came of age, I met Rhett. We fell in love, got married, and had our son." Neva's shoulders slouches, she breathes out softly, relieved she has the strength to continue the piece she despises the most.
"But then Ishmael came... and everything changed. He abducted me—and forced me into a marriage I never wanted."
She pauses, the weight of her words settling in the air.
"I remember nothing, beyond the fragments I've just begun to recover of Miraeth, and the four years I spent with Ishmael, trapped in the illusion he built around me.
Ishmael admits it—that he was behind my amnesia."
"He kept me in darkness all these years, feeding me lies. Until Rhett came for me. He fought for me. He opened my eyes to the truth... to delusion I was drowning in."
Neva swallows hard and turns toward the open window.
The breeze floats in, soft and sweet, brushing against her skin.
She inhales deeply, closing her eyes as the wind stirs her wavy, unbound hair—like a whisper of freedom she'd nearly forgotten.
Her chest lightens. The soft patter of raindrops on the forest canopy and the thatched roof above creates a gentle rhythm, the rustling of leaves soothing her.
"We were already separated," she says quietly, "when the messenger brought Ishmael and me to Miraeth about a week ago. That's when he spoke to me about my purpose."
She turns her eyes to Apphia, her gaze steady, her voice calmer now. Her truth is out.
Apphia's eyes brim with empathy, her expression gentle and understanding.
"My child," she says, reaching for Neva's hand, "I pray that everything you've endured has only made you stronger—and that it has prepared your heart for the great purpose God has called you to."
Neva offers a faint smile, touched by her kindness, but there's a question pressing against her chest—one she's held back for too long.
With a fragile hope and a deep, aching yearning in her voice, she asks, "Tell me about my parents, Nana. What became of them?"