Years passed in small, ordinary ways.
One morning, the kettle whistled before the birds began their song. Sophie stood by the window of the little house she and Jake had built just outside town. The garden had grown wild with lavender and rosemary. The porch creaked in a familiar rhythm. And the world—soft, golden, still—felt like something she could hold now.
Inside, the smell of cinnamon drifted from the oven. A tiny hand tugged at her sweater.
"Mommy," the boy whispered, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Can we go see the tree?"
Sophie smiled, brushing his hair back. "The old tree?"
He nodded.
Jake appeared in the doorway, barefoot, coffee in hand. "We can go after breakfast. It's still there."
The boy grinned and ran off. Sophie leaned into Jake's side, their quiet falling into rhythm again, as natural as breath.
"Do you remember the first time we went back there?" she asked.
Jake nodded. "You cried."
"I didn't."
"You did. Just a little."
She smiled. "It was the first time I let myself miss her without falling apart."
The oak tree stood at the far edge of the woods, still strong. Still weathered. Still home to the memories she used to avoid.
They laid a blanket in its shade, their son chasing butterflies in the tall grass. Sophie ran her hand across the bark, tracing initials long faded. Her father's laughter echoed in her bones. Her mother's humming seemed to stir in the leaves.
"Sometimes," she whispered, "I wonder what they'd think of all this."
Jake pulled her close. "They'd be proud."
"I hope so."
She watched her son collapse in the grass, breathless with joy. He had her smile. Jake's stubborn eyes. And a heart untouched by the grief that had once nearly drowned her.
She'd built something they never got to. Something soft. Something lasting.
Back home, she sat at her desk, flipping through old notebooks filled with thoughts that once felt like lifelines. Grief. Hope. Fear. Love. All written down, like footprints through a storm.
At the back of one notebook, a sentence caught her eye:
"I am still becoming."
She smiled, closed the book, and put it away.
She didn't need to write it anymore.
Now she lived it.
That evening, Jake tucked their son into bed. Sophie sat by the window, staring out at the quiet that once felt like a void.
Now it felt like peace.
She whispered a soft goodnight to the dark, not expecting an answer.
And somehow, she felt one anyway.
The quiet between them was no longer empty.
It was full of all they had survived, and all they had chosen.
It was the softest kind of forever.