The years after Lena's passing were gentle.
Not easy—grief is never easy—but gentle. The family carried their loss together, sharing memories, telling stories, keeping the love alive. Aurora led them with the same warmth her mother had shown, the same wisdom her fathers had taught. The city thrived. The generations multiplied. The love endured.
But in the quiet moments, they all felt it—the absence of those three lights that had guided them from the beginning. The cabin on the hill stood empty now, preserved as a memorial. The porch where they'd sat together for so many evenings was silent. The stars that had witnessed their love still shone, but somehow they seemed dimmer without Lena's light among them.
"She's with them now," Mira said softly, standing at the window of the old cabin.
