(Three Years Later)
It's a lovely day—the kind that feels alive. The sun gleams bright, the water ripples with shimmering ersatz light, and the crystal-turquoise lake flows with musical calm.
A timberline of lush green bushes stands nearby, vines heavy with fruit.
The grass, wildflowers, and trees breathe in the golden spring, their branches stretching like veins of living art.
The earth blossoms and sways; the early leaves flutter in every nectarous flurry.
Birdsong drips like ambrosia. Mated birds perch and chirp, serenading the beauty of this inflorescent spring.
Beneath them, a bed of sun-kissed shrubs and grass, yellow-green at the peaks and darker at the roots, aborns with flickering blooms that glow like quiet flames.
Above the blossoms, golden bees buzz in joy. Kaleidoscopic butterflies flutter and drink from the nectar-rich flowers.
A mature river birch looms nearby, its branches rustling with heavy leaves, nearly toppling. The generous shade blesses a peaceful sanctuary—and beneath it, Neva hums a soft melody, a symphony in tune with the pulsing earth.
Her fingers gently stroke Ishmael's soft hair as he lies with a serene expression, more tranquil than she's ever seen him, resting on her lap.
She drifts him toward a dreamworld, but he resists.
For this—her warmth, her presence—this is a reality no utopia in his wildest chimaera could rival.
A blanket lies spread beneath them. A wicker picnic basket rests nearby, alongside two half-finished canvases—sunlit scenery painted in skilled color.
Paintbrushes are scattered around a transparent cup inked with watery hues, tiny splatters marking the fabric like confetti.
"Love?" Ishmael murmurs.
Neva pauses her tune. "Hmm?"
He looks up at her with a smile—a dreamy, lover-boy grin that draws a shy curve to her own lips.
"I love you," he says, voice quiet, clear, and brimming with lucency.
A breeze swirls. Strands of her hair lifts, feathers in the wind—a floating curtain across her face.
To him, she is miraculous. The most beautiful life to live. Unchanged. Eternally young.
His. His precious woman.
"I love you too," Neva whispers back.
His smile deepens, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he rises to sit. Her mysterious eyes swirl in the glow of his gaze.
He captures her lips in a kiss—smiling into the touch.
His large hand cups her jaw as he deepens the art... watering the roots of their love.
"Mumma!"
A joyful voice cuts through the air, and the married couple break apart in surprise—Neva's eyes wide, her hands gently pushing at Ishmael's chest.
A boy with round, rosy cheeks and delicate milky skin stands beneath the river birch. His hair is ruffled, his smile wide—a heart-shaped joy etched on his cheeky little face.
Neva and Ishmael straighten, startled and flushed.
"I made this for you," the boy chirps, panting slightly, almond-brown eyes gleaming with excitement.
Neva's gaze thaws.
In his stubby fist is a wildflower bouquet—messy, vibrant, and heartbreakingly sweet.
She reaches out, caressing his face and placing a gentle kiss on his warm cheek. He giggles, giddy from her affection.
Her heart swells, warm and alive from his happiness. "Thank you, baby," she whispers, taking the present—surprised when he suddenly wraps his arms around her.
She hugs him close, her hand stroking his lush curls.
Her eyes find Ishmael's. He smiles, watching them—burnished and glowing.
"You didn't bring me anything, Isaiah?" Ishmael asks playfully.
Isaiah pulls back and looks at him. "But boys don't like flowers, Papa."
"Who said boys don't like flowers?" Ishmael raises a brow.
"I've never seen you get any," Isaiah replies, puzzled.
"And you just assumed?" Ishmael presses, amused.
Isaiah shrugs. "You're the only boy I know."
With that, he crawls onto Neva's lap and settles there. She glances at Ishmael. A faint, guilt-shadowed frown gathers between his brows.
She reaches out and squeezes his hand lightly. His eyes meet hers.
Neva tilts her head and gives him a small, assuring blink.
He's done everything with one proverb in mind: Protect them. Even if it means keeping their circle small, and their world shielded.
Ishmael's frown softens. He returns a quiet smile.
Neva is plucking sticky seeds and petals from Isaiah's tousled hair. "Where's your sister?" she asks, fingers gently combing.
"Naya's very slow, Mumma. I left her behind," Isaiah says, distracted by the toy car in his hands.
He holds it up, mimicking engine sounds.
Neva frowns. "You can't leave her alone, Isaiah. What if she gets hurt?" she chides, concern flaring in her chest.
He pauses, then looks up at her, lips trembling, eyes beginning to glisten. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, voice small.
Her expression softens instantly.
Her son is loved deeply—and even a slight sharpness from her feels like a wound to his little heart.
"I'll go find her," Ishmael says, standing.
"Come back soon," Neva calls gently.
"I will."
She tightens her lips into a thin line as he walks away, anxiety threading her heart. Though guards watch from the shadows, always close, always obscured—there's never truly solitude. She's used to it. It comforts and stifles her in equal measure.
"Mumma?" Isaiah cups her cheek, guilt lingering in his eyes.
She smiles and brushes his bangs aside.
"Don't do that again, okay? A good big brother always looks after his little sister. Got it?"
He nods solemnly. "Okay."
"Okay," she echoes softly, placing a sweet kiss on his cheek.
He beams, syrupy joy spreading across his features.
---
Ishmael moves through the woods.
The hush of nature wraps around him—deep, green, and untouched.
He knows every inch of this land because it's his own property.
Camouflaged security cameras are placed throughout the area. His men are stationed, armed and alert, cloaked in the foliage.
Like the shadowed figure behind a tree—head to toe in black, camouflaged in green wilderness.
He should feel reassured. Inaya must be near.
But he doesn't. Not until he's found her.
Even her favorite spot by the lake lies empty.
The lake glistens under a blue sky, clouds drifting lazily above. He stands at the open shore. The grove's shadow deepens over the water with the slow descent of the sun.
A cold wind stirs the grasses. They sway tall and soft, flowers in white, purple, and pink flaring beneath the gusts.
He reaches for his phone, about to call the chief of security—
when he catches sight of her from the corner of his eye.
A tiny figure in a peach-colored frock, half-hidden in tall shrubs, her curls cascading over her shoulders.
"Naya," he calls softly into the wind.
She turns immediately, searching for him.
When her eyes find him, a brilliant smile blooms on her face—brighter than all the wildflowers.
"Papa!" she squeals, cheeks glowing.
Tiny legs race through fluttering butterflies to reach him.
He stoops low, arms wide—and catches her up into his chest, heart swelling.
"What's my pearl doing here?" he coos, brushing a kiss into her curls.
Inaya grins and proudly reveals what's kept her so busy. Two flower crowns, carefully woven, lie in her hands.
Ishmael's brows lift in delight. "Is this for Mumma?" he asks.
She nods eagerly. "One for Mumma. One for Papa."
He chuckles, gently rubbing noses with her, her giggles bubbling over like a fountain.
"Papa, put me down. I still have more to make!" she says earnestly.
"Shall I help you then?" he asks, pinching her soft cheek.
"Yes!" she beams, nodding fast, and wriggles until he sets her down again.
They vanish deeper into the meadow, her tiny hands full of wild dreams.