Virginia in the winter was quieter than Elara remembered.


Snow dusted the tops of cars and trees like powdered sugar, and the familiar creak of the porch steps brought a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. She stepped through the door of her childhood home, violin case in one hand, Michael’s hand in the other.


Marcus stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a wide grin spreading across his face. “So this is the playwright.”


Michael, nervous but charming, extended his hand. “Michael Moreau. Sir.”


Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Sir? You trying to butter me up already?”


They all laughed. Tension broke like glass.




Inside, the house felt alive with comfort. Liana had come over earlier to help prepare dinner. Her relationship with Elara was still a tender work in progress—more like slow stitching than a tight embrace—but there was something sweet in the effort.


When Liana met Michael, she surprised everyone by hugging him.


“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft against his shoulder. “For loving my girl.”


Michael blinked, visibly touched. “It’s easy.”




The dinner table overflowed—not just with food, but family. Elara’s cousins and aunties, Marcus’s old friend from work, even the neighbor who still brought banana pudding every holiday. The room was filled with voices, laughter, clinking glasses, and stories Elara hadn’t heard in years.


She sat beside Michael, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. He fit there, in that life, in that house. And she realized with a sharp kind of clarity: this wasn’t just a visit. This was a turning point.


At one moment, Marcus clinked his glass.


“I want to say something,” he said, standing. “Watching my daughter grow has been the greatest joy of my life. She is the most resilient, brilliant woman I know. And now… watching someone love her the way she deserves? That’s another kind of joy.”


Everyone turned as Michael stood slowly, nervously wiping his palms on his pants.


“I was going to wait,” he said. “But… when you know, you know.”


He dropped to one knee.


Gasps.


“Élara Camille Jordan, you are the music in every moment of my life. Will you marry me?”


Tears blurred her vision. Around her, the room hushed, hearts holding their breath.


“Yes,” she said, voice breaking, joy blooming in her chest. “Yes.”


The room erupted.




Later that night, when the house had quieted and snow was falling again, Marcus pulled Michael aside.


“You didn’t have to ask me for her hand,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.”


Michael smiled. “I meant it. She’s everything.”


Marcus nodded, his voice thick. “Then take care of her. That girl’s been through a lot. But she still loves like she’s never been hurt. Don’t let that go.”


“I won’t,” Michael promised.




And in her old bedroom, Elara sat on the bed, staring at the ring on her finger. She felt happy. Hopeful. But also… unsure. Not about Michael. About what came next.


She could hear the whispers already.


When will you have children?


The thought tugged at a memory—of Liana leaving, of never knowing why for so long. Elara touched her stomach lightly. The past echoed in her body. She wasn’t sure if she could trust herself not to repeat it.