The nursery was nearly ready now. The crib stood proudly beneath the painted moon and stars, the mobile spun gently with the breeze from the open window, and a small bookshelf stood half-filled with picture books and lullabies.


But tucked in the corner was something more personal—a wooden keepsake box with golden hinges, handcrafted by Marcus himself. Inside, Elara and Michael had begun placing letters. Not to each other. To their child.



---


Michael wrote his first one at the kitchen table, late one evening when Elara had fallen asleep early.


"Dear Little Star," he wrote, "Today I felt you kick for the first time. Your mom grabbed my hand so fast I almost missed it. But I felt you. Tiny and fierce. And I swear… everything else disappeared."


He went on to write about the play he was working on, how he hoped their child would grow up surrounded by stories. How he promised to always listen, even when he didn’t have the answers.



---


Elara’s letter came a few days later, while she sat on the window seat of the nursery, a soft rain tapping against the glass.


"Sweetheart," she began, "Today I imagined the sound of your voice. I don’t know if it will be high and bright, or soft like a song. But I know I will listen to every word. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. And I promise to love every version of you."


She paused, the pen trembling slightly in her hand.


"Sometimes I worry about the things I didn’t have. But you’ll have us. A full-hearted, flawed, wildly devoted us."



---


Each letter was dated. Folded. Tied with ribbon.


There were letters about names, dreams, fears, music, quiet moments, and loud ones. Some days Elara simply wrote a sentence. Other times, pages poured from her hands like water from a full cup.


It became a ritual.


Each time they wrote, they were building something invisible. A bridge between now and then. Between who they were as expectant parents and who they would become.



---


One night, Michael added the final letter of the week.


"We don’t know your face yet. But we’ve imagined your smile.

We don’t know your laugh. But we’re already laughing with you.

We don’t know your name. But we whisper it into the stars."



---


That night, Elara added one more line to her journal:


"Dear little one—

These letters are a promise.

Of presence.

Of love that will greet you

on the first day…

and every day after."