Paris greeted them like an old friend—unapologetically alive, vibrant, and unbothered by the weight Elara carried in her heart. The soft roar of scooters, the smell of warm bread and exhaust, the silver glint of the Seine weaving through the city—it all returned like muscle memory.


Michael held Aurora in one arm as he hailed a cab. Elara stood beside him, her suitcase rolling softly over the cobblestones, feeling like she had stepped into a new version of her old life.


The apartment was just as they had left it, but something had shifted. The crib in the corner. The lullabies folded into the air. The silences filled with the breathing of someone small and sacred.


This was home. But now, it carried three heartbeats.



---


That first night, Elara sat in her music room. Aurora slept in the next room, and Michael had gone to pick up groceries. The piano called to her like a quiet ache. She sat before it and let her fingers press gently against the keys.


She didn’t try to compose. Not yet. Instead, she played pieces she used to love. Melodies that had comforted her before she became a mother. Now, they felt different—richer, rounder, like the music had grown alongside her.


When Michael returned, he paused in the doorway, just listening.


“You’ve changed,” he said, after she finished.


Elara turned, eyebrow lifted. “Changed?”


“In the way you play. There’s something new in it. Like… certainty.”


She smiled, fingers resting on the keys. “I think it’s peace. Or the beginning of it.”



---


Over the next few weeks, they settled in.


Michael returned to rehearsal. Elara accepted a commission to write original music for a small theater production. It was slow at first—balancing motherhood and creativity—but she felt her rhythm returning.


Each morning, Aurora smiled at her with wide, trusting eyes. Each night, Michael kissed her like he still couldn’t believe she was his.


And Elara, for the first time in her life, felt like she was writing her story—not escaping it.



---


One afternoon, as the three of them strolled through Parc Monceau, Michael took Elara’s hand.


“You’ve given me everything,” he said.


Elara looked at him, the breeze brushing through her hair. “And you’ve reminded me who I am.”


Michael stopped walking. “So what do we want next?”


She thought of her mother, of Marcus, of Brigitte. Of music, of motherhood, of fear and love and all that still stretched ahead.


“I want to keep building a life that feels like us,” she said. “And when it’s time… I think I’d like to give Aurora a sibling.”


Michael didn’t speak—he just pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, breathing in the moment.



---


That night, Elara wrote:


"Dear Aurora—

Home is not just a place.

It’s the people who wait for you.

It’s the songs you carry inside.

And no matter where we go next—

As long as I have you and your father,

I will never be lost again."