Serena Rosette
Paris awoke that morning like it knew she was being remembered.
The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. I wake slowly, blinking in the soft light, and for a second, I forget where I am. Then, the familiar scent of jasmine wafts through the window, and I remember. Paris. My mother’s house. Her birthday.
I sit up, feeling the weight of it all. The weight of the memories, the weight of the love that still lingers in every corner of this place. I can almost hear her voice—low and soothing—calling me for breakfast or telling me a story. The past feels so close today, like if I reach out, I could touch it.
I glance over at her portrait on the wall, her face soft and serene, even in a moment frozen in time. She always had a way of
