When Evelyn was sixteen, a wizened Romani woman at the bustling market in York slipped her cold, knotty hand into Evelyns and, eyes narrowed as if reading the threads of a tapestry, whispered, Youll never walk down the aisle. Evelyn only laughed, the sound ringing like wind chimes. Years drifted by, and when Victor stepped before her, ring glinting like a promise, those words floated back and she smiled, Well, at least Ill be the bride, she quipped, and said yes.
They married.
Children were a distant dream.
The doctors, in their white coats, declared it final: infertility, no options, no hope.
Fine, Ill at least be a wife, Evelyn sighed, fighting tears that threatened to spill like rain.
Then, like a sudden sunrise, she found herself with child.
The physicians warned, Its risky; you might not survive.
Evelyn only returned a soft grin, Very well, Ill at least be pregnant.
A sturdy, healthy boy came into the world, his cry a thunderclap of new life.
Years slipped like pages in a windtossed book. Together Evelyn and Victor weathered every joy and loss, laughter and tears, soaring highs and crushing falls. Forty years passed in the breathless blink of a dream.
Then a fresh diagnosis: You have six months left, the doctors said. Evelyn met their gaze, steady as stone, and answered, Then Ill jump from a plane. Ive always wanted to feel the clouds. And she leaptfirst, then again, and once moreeach fall a splash of colour across the sky.
Months later, when the lab results came back, the illness had vanished. For as long as a person truly lives, fate merely lifts its shoulders, rewrites the story anew, and lets the dream continue.
