The whisper of summer breeze through my open bedroom window carried the sounds of children's laughter. I paused at my dressing table, hairbrush suspended in mid-air as I listened to the sweet melody. A year had passed since that fateful day in the Slumbering Vale, and sometimes I still found myself startled by the simple peace of our everyday lives.
"Mama! Look what I made!" Mariella burst into the room, her seven-year-old energy filling the space as she thrust a painting toward me. Bright colors splashed across the canvas in what I recognized as her interpretation of our family.
"It's beautiful, darling," I said, setting down my brush to take the artwork. The figures were simple but unmistakable—Alaric's imposing height, my long dark hair, Lysander's serious stance, little Elara's tiny form, and Mariella herself in the middle, connecting us all.
"Papa says I have real talent," she announced proudly, bouncing on her toes.
