“The sun faltered,” I went on, voice softening as I watched Yannis’s rapt expression. “He’d never heard anyone speak to him like that. Slowly, he dimmed—just a little—and watched them dance, realizing that there was enough light in the universe for everyone.”
Yannis’s mouth opened slightly, awe and wonder overtaking the lingering fear in his eyes. “And... did the sun stay mad?” he whispered.
“After that,” I said, voice gentle, almost a lullaby, “the sun became their friend. He gave them extra light to play with. And every night, Lio and Mira returned to the sky—brighter than ever—showing every lonely star that they didn’t have to shine alone.”
I paused, letting the words settle around us like a soft blanket. “And from then on, whenever a star felt lonely, it would look for the silver-gold trail in the sky. Because Lio and Mira always came back. They always came back.”
Yannis stared at me, eyes huge, lips parted in awe. Slowly, as though testing the possibility, a small, tentative smile curved across his face.
“That was... good,” he whispered, voice thick with lingering sadness, but lighter now, as though a shadow had lifted just a fraction.
He clapped once, soft and delighted. “Thank you, Elena. You’re a nice storyteller.”
I smiled—truly smiled this time—and brushed my fingers through his hair, lingering at the crown of his head. The scent of soap and childhood innocence filled my senses, grounding me in the fragile, fleeting happiness of the moment.
He yawned, eyes heavy again, the tension of nightmares slowly melting into drowsy comfort. “I feel hungry,” he mumbled, voice small and earnest.
I laughed softly, the sound warm and light in the quiet room. “Then let’s get you some food, little star.”.
Yannis’s little face brightened immediately, the first genuine spark of joy since the nightmare. His gray eyes gleamed, wide and hopeful, and he nodded eagerly. “Yes! I’ll wait here for you.”
Then, almost shyly, he signed and spoke at the same time, his tiny fingers moving with deliberate care, his words haltingbut full of expectation: “Can you make me... peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off? And... banana slices on the side? And chocolate milk? That’s my favorite.”
My chest tightened. Just hearing him talk about his favorite food—something so simple, so utterly ordinary—was a balm to my bruised soul. Classic five-year-old comfort food: sweet, safe, predictable.
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” I said, smiling more freely than I had in days. “Peanut butter and jelly, crustless, banana slices, chocolate milk. Coming right up.”
I bent down and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of his head. His hair was soft, smelling faintly of shampoo and the warmth of sleep, and his small hands briefly rested on my shoulders as if anchoring himself in safety.
He let out a tiny, content sigh and settled back against the pillow, eyes tracking me as I stepped toward the door.
He called out, small but insistent, “Don’t forget the chocolate milk!”
I laughed softly, the sound light and buoyant in the hallway. “I won’t forget. Scout’s honor.”
The hallway stretched before me, quiet and sunlit. Rays of morning light poured through tall windows, scattering over the marble floors like golden rivers.
Shadows of the statues danced along the walls—Athena, Apollo, nymphs frozen in stone—silent witnesses to every moment, every heartbeat.
I followed the faint scent of coffee and citrus wafting up from the ground floor, down the grand staircase, my bare feet padding softly on the cool marble.
The kitchen doors were arched, carved with intricate olive branches and meander patterns, almost like an invitation into another world.
When I pushed them open, I froze.
The space was breathtaking, the kind of room that demanded reverence.
White marble countertops veined with gold stretched endlessly, the polished surface catching the sun in warm streaks.
The mosaic backsplash stole my breath—a pastoral scene of nymphs harvesting olives under a glowing sun, their movements frozen in mid-motion, hands outstretched, baskets brimming with fruit.
Beyond the windows, the infinity pool shimmered like liquid glass, stretching toward the endless expanse of the Pacific.
I just stood there for a long moment, taking it all in. My chest rose and fell slowly, savoring a sensation I hadn’t felt in weeks: calm. Belonging, almost.
My first time in this kitchen. My first time feeling—dare I think it—like I had a place in this house.
I shook my head, letting the awe slide into purpose. Yannis was waiting. I had a mission.
