It began as a whisper in her mind—quiet and uncertain.


Elara sat at the piano weeks after the wedding, her fingers brushing over the keys, but no sound came. The melody had left her lately, replaced with thoughts she couldn’t compose away.


What if I can’t do it? What if something breaks in me the moment I hold a child?


Paris continued to move around her—markets blooming with color, sidewalks alive with music—but inside their small apartment tucked near Rue des Martyrs, Elara moved slower.


Michael noticed.


One night, after dinner, he set down his fork and asked gently, “Is it the same fear again?”


She looked at him, her eyes tired but honest. “Yes. It’s like a shadow I can’t outrun.”




Michael listened, as he always did, and then offered something unexpected.


“Come with me,” he said.


“To where?”


“To the coast. A small village where my grandparents lived. It’s quiet. Still. Maybe you need space to hear yourself.”


Elara hesitated. But part of her longed for the quiet.


And so they went.




The village was nestled by the sea, with crumbling stone paths and a bakery that still closed for midday naps. They stayed in a small home with weathered shutters and wind chimes. Days passed in slow waves—walks by the cliffs, warm bread in the morning, the sea singing at night.


And Elara began to dream.


One night, she dreamt of a little girl—curly-haired, laughing, barefoot in a field. She couldn’t see her face clearly, but her laughter stayed with Elara all day, clinging to the edges of her thoughts.


She dreamt of lullabies and paintings on tiny walls, of sleepless nights that didn’t feel like loss, but devotion.


And one morning, while watching Michael sketch in the sun, she whispered:


“I think I do want to be a mother.”


Michael turned, eyes soft. “Even if it’s scary?”


“Yes,” she said. “Because love is always a little scary. But it’s the only thing that’s ever saved me.”




They returned to Paris weeks later, lighter in their hearts. Elara sat at the piano again, and this time, a new melody came. Soft. Tentative. Hopeful.


She didn’t know what the future would bring—but for the first time, she felt ready to write it.