The darkness swallowed her whole.
The test had begun.
Annie blinked once—
—and the darkness was gone.
Soft sunlight warmed her face. A gentle breeze drifted in through open windows. She was lying in bed, blankets tangled around her legs, the faint scent of cinnamon and coffee in the air.
She knew this place.
Home.
She turned her head, and there he was.
Malvor.
Still asleep beside her, his dark lashes casting shadows over his cheek. Shirtless. Warm. Breathing evenly, arm draped over her hip as if he would never stop touching her.
Then—
Soft kisses.
First to her shoulder. Then her neck.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and sweetness. "You're still here."
Annie smiled before she could stop herself. "So are you."
He sat up, grinning. "Be right back. Don't move."
She watched him walk out of the room, barefoot, relaxed, so normal. So human.
Then—
"Princess?"
The voice echoed down the hall.
Not to her.
To someone else.
Annie sat up.
And then he returned.
Carrying her.
A toddler, maybe two or three years old. Auburn curls spilled around her tiny face like firelight, eyes round and bright, one blue, one green.
She squealed with laughter as Malvor spun her once before plopping down on the bed beside Annie.
Their daughter.
Annie stared, chest tightening. Breath stalling.
"Say good morning to Mommy," Malvor said, kissing the girl's forehead.
"Morning, Mommy!" the girl squeaked, and launched herself into Annie's arms.
Annie caught her without thinking. She felt the weight. The warmth. The tiny hands gripping her sleeves. She buried her face in that soft little shoulder and inhaled.
She smelled like baby soap and the lemon cookies they apparently made last night.
Tears stung her eyes.
Malvor lay beside her, one arm draped over both of them now. "We're taking her to the pond today," he said casually, brushing Annie's hair behind her ear. "Unless you want to go skating again."
"She wants to go to the pond," the girl said, frowning with serious importance. "The ducks are waiting."
Annie laughed.
She laughed.
The sound cracked something wide open inside her.
She kissed her daughter's hair. "Of course they are."
The morning passed like something stolen from a dream. Tickling. Giggles. Malvor doing ridiculous voices while pretending to be the world's worst stuffed animal narrator. The girl's curls bouncing as she stomped her feet to music Annie hadn't realized was playing.
That afternoon, they went to the park.
The sun hung low and golden in the sky, warm but not hot, with a breeze that tousled their hair and rustled the trees like nature itself was humming a lullaby. Their picnic blanket lay sprawled beneath an old oak, sandwiches half-eaten beside tubs of grapes and carrots.
Their daughter, still sticky with juice and joy, ran to the pond with a plastic bag clutched in her little fist.
"Come on!" she squealed. "They're hungry!"
Annie and Malvor followed, watching as she fed the ducks piece by piece, grapes for "Sir Quackers," carrots for "Lady Fluffbill," and stern scolding for "No Nap Nigel," who apparently had misbehaved last week.
"She is very serious about her ducks," Malvor whispered.
"She is you," Annie whispered back, her heart cracking with something too soft to name.
Later that day, as they packed up the picnic and wiped sticky fingers and cheeks, the little girl beamed up at them.
"Grammy and Popsy invited us for dinner!"
Annie blinked. "They did?"
The girl nodded so hard her curls bounced. "Spaghetti night!"
Dinner was everything it should have been.
Her mother looked like an older version of herself, same smile, same softness, same way she wore worry gently behind her eyes. Her hair was pulled back, streaked with gray and wisdom, and her blue eyes sparkled when she hugged Annie tight.
Her father was quiet, kind. Hair gone silver but his gaze still sharp, thoughtful. He kissed her temple and told her how proud he was. Of the family she built. Of the woman she'd become.
They sat around a table that had seen better days—scratched wood, mismatched chairs, old placemats faded from sun and scrubbing. The air smelled like tomato sauce and oregano and home.
Her mother served spaghetti piled high, the noodles steaming, the sauce thick and red and full of all the love she used to stir into it when Annie was a child.
One bite, and Annie closed her eyes.
It tasted exactly right.
She looked across the table at Malvor. He was laughing at some ridiculous story her father was telling, nodding along like he had always been there.
Their daughter sat between them, swinging her legs, her mouth stained red from the sauce, grinning up at everyone like joy itself.
No magic.
No chaos.
No runes.
No scars.
Just home.
Just life.
And Annie didn't question it.
They tucked the little girl into bed in the softest room Annie had ever seen, cream walls with faded moon decals, a blanket that smelled faintly of lavender, and a stuffed dragon worn smooth from love.
The bedtime routine was second nature. A book with too many voices from Malvor, a half-sung lullaby from Annie. Tiny arms wrapped around her neck. A kiss on the forehead.
Then—
"Good night, my little miracle," Annie whispered against her daughter's curls.
The child, her child, smiled sleepily, lids fluttering.
"Night night, Mama."
And just like that, the world shifted.
My little miracle.
Annie blinked as the words settled in her chest like stones.
Mireya.
Her name was Mireya.
She had not remembered it until now, but as soon as the name struck her, it rang like truth through her ribs. Mireya, the one they had hoped for. The child they had waited for. Prayed for.
But prayed to who?
Her stomach twisted.
She stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, watching Malvor pull the blanket up over Mireya's small shoulders. He looked up at her with so much quiet joy it hurt to meet his eyes.
She smiled.
But the smile trembled.
This felt too perfect. Too soft. Too warm. Too whole.
Like someone had looked inside her and built a world from everything she ever wanted—And made it just a little too right.
So right it felt wrong.
Because perfect was the one thing her life had never been.