I had twelve candles left. That was all. Twelve candles, one silver lighter, and a dining room full of people pretending not to

(Word count: ~1500 words)

One year later.

The spring air in Chicago was sweet with the scent of blooming jasmine and fresh earth.

I stood inside the newly renovated conservatory—the very room where my life had changed forever eighteen months ago.

The broken pots and dark memories were gone. The glass dome had been completely restored, gleaming under the bright afternoon sun. Rows of blooming Italian lemon trees, rare orchids, and fragrant herbs filled the wide, sunlit space.

Standing near a large wooden potting bench, wearing a canvas apron and holding a brass watering can, was Rosa Alvarez.

At seventy-four, Rosa was officially the Master Botanist of the Moretti Estate, leading a team of four young apprentice gardeners sponsored by our foundation.

"Look at these orchids, Julia!" Rosa called out happily, pointing to a vibrant cluster of purple blooms. "Your mother-in-law planted the parent stem twenty years ago. They've finally bloomed again!"

I walked over, holding the hand of my three-year-old niece, Lily, who was visiting for the weekend.

"They're beautiful, Rosa," I smiled, bending down to let Lily smell the sweet flowers.

"Flowers only bloom when the soil is clean, my dear," Rosa said wisely, setting her watering can down and wiping her hands on her apron. "For twenty years, this house had dark soil. Now... it's full of life."

The heavy iron conservatory doors pushed open.

Luca walked inside, wearing a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, carrying a small wooden cradle he had been hand-carving in his workshop for the past three weeks.

When his eyes met mine, that familiar, intense warmth lit up his handsome face.

"How is the cradle coming along?" I asked, stepping over to meet him.

Luca set the beautifully carved wooden cradle down on a bench. It was made of solid mahogany, carved with delicate olive branches around the headboard—identical to the carving on his mother's antique box.

"It's finished," Luca said softly, his hands tracing the smooth, polished wood. "Just in time."

I reached out, placing his large hand gently over my rounded belly beneath my summer dress.

I was six months pregnant with our first child—a baby boy.

Luca’s expression melted into pure, unadulterated tenderness. He dropped to his knees in front of me, leaning his head gently against my belly, listening to the tiny heartbeat within.

"He's kicking," Luca whispered, a breathless, happy laugh escaping his lips.

"He knows his father is here," I smiled, running my fingers through his dark hair.

Rosa walked over, watching us with tears of pure joy in her eyes. "Elena is watching down on this room today, Luca. She is so proud of the man you've become."

Luca stood up, pulling me into a warm, protective embrace, resting his chin softly against the top of my head.

"I couldn't have done it without my light," Luca murmured into my hair.

"We did it together," I reminded him gently, looking up into his gray eyes.