It was a small house by the edge of a quiet town.
One story. Two rooms.
And windows that drank sunlight like an old man drinks morning tea — slowly, thankfully.
The porch was filled with pots — wild rosemary, lavender, overgrown basil.
There was a wind chime made of broken brushes and dried pencils.
And a cat named Figaro who came and went as he pleased.
Inside, in the corner of the living room, stood two easels.
One always smelled faintly of citrus and sea.
The other, like cinnamon and wet ink.
You could walk into that house and never know who lived there — unless you looked closely.
At the framed note on the wall.
> "I didn't come back to fix you.
I came back to walk beside you — wherever you choose to go."
— E. D.
---
Aurélie sat by the window, sketching a child's hand clutching a daisy.
The child, in real life, was asleep two rooms away.
Elio had just put her to bed — their daughter, Éline, named after a poem they once read on a rainy Sunday.
She was three now.
Curious.
Bold.
And already asking why the moon follows them when they walk.
Aurélie smiled to herself. She could still hear Elio's answer from earlier:
> "Because the moon is just making sure we get home safe."
---
The fireplace cracked softly.
Books were stacked on every surface, like quiet guests waiting their turn.
On the wall, above the couch, hung the last painting Aurélie had finished before Éline was born.
It was titled "The Return."
A figure stood at the edge of a garden, unsure whether to enter.
Another waited inside, one hand extended, not pulling — just offering.
That was how they chose to live.
No chains.
No cages.
Just hands, extended.
---
Later that night, when Elio joined her by the window, he carried two mugs.
"Still no sugar?" she asked, taking one.
He grinned. "Still no cinnamon?"
"Always."
They clinked mugs gently, like a toast not needing words.
Then they sat, the two of them, quietly watching the wind make shadows on the floor.
"You ever think about the apartment?" she asked.
He nodded. "The broken stove. That dripping faucet."
"And the postcards."
He smiled. "You kept them."
"All of them."
She turned toward him.
"I'm glad we didn't end there."
"I'm glad we ended up here," he said.
---
Outside, the garden rustled — half-wild, half-tamed, just like her.
Aurélie leaned her head on Elio's shoulder.
"I don't think I ever stopped loving you," she whispered.
"I don't think you were supposed to," he replied.
---
Time passed softly in that little home.
Elio wrote again.
Aurélie painted.
Éline grew — too fast sometimes — with elbows full of dirt and questions too big for adults to answer.
They taught her how to name stars.
How to listen to silence.
How to say I'm sorry without shame.
On her fourth birthday, they gave her a blank journal and said, "Write everything down. Even the quiet."
And she did.
---
One evening, as the sky turned the color of faded marigold, Aurélie found an old envelope at the back of their bookshelf.
Yellowed with time.
Unopened.
Her own handwriting on the front.
"To the version of me who finally lets herself be loved."
She opened it.
Inside was a letter she wrote years ago — back when her hair was shorter and her heart more afraid.
She read it aloud to Elio that night.
> "Dear Me,
If you're reading this, it means you've let someone in.
It means you're no longer hiding behind metaphors and gallery lights.
It means you've stopped calling solitude a virtue when really, it was fear.
I hope he's kind.
I hope he listens more than he speaks.
I hope he loves your silence as much as your laughter.
And I hope you know:
You never had to earn love by being perfect.
You just had to be willing.
Always,
The girl who once said no because she was too scared to say yes."
By the time she finished, Elio's hand was on hers.
She didn't cry.
Not anymore.
She just smiled. Softly.
Like someone who had finally made it home.
---
Years later, long after the bookstore closed and the city changed its skyline again, two paintings hung side by side in a small gallery in the countryside.
One was titled "Before You."
The other, "After Us."
They were not signed with names.
Only initials:
A.D. and E.D.
Beneath them, a small placard read:
> "This is not a story about falling in love.
This is a story about staying."