**Diary Entry 16th of July, 2023**
Perhaps it was a sign. Mary paused by the garden gate, her gaze landing on an apple that had fallen cleanly in two just before her.
Nicholas quietly picked up both halves, handing one to his wife. His eyes held more than words could say.
The sixth test. The sixth disappointment.
Yet instead of tears, there was only resolve.
“Well go into town tomorrow,” Mary said, taking a bite of the apple. “To the childrens home.”
Their house stood on a hill, surrounded by orchards where bees hummed in summer and snow settled softly on the birdhouses in winter. An old, two-story home with carved window frames and a wide verandait wasnt just shelter to them, but something alive, breathing alongside them.
“Are you sure?” Nicholas ran a hand over the rough bark of the ancient apple tree.
Mary nodded. Six months ago, theyd received the diagnosischildren werent in their future. Yet instead of despair, an odd calm settled in, as though fate whispered: *This isnt the end. Its the beginning.*
At dawn, they set off in their old blue pickup, winding down country lanes through dew-covered fields. Mary stared out the window, lips moving silently. Nicholas knew she was prayingnot with words, but with her whole heart.
He took her hand, squeezing tight.
“Blood doesnt choose how it comes into the world. But the soul knows where it belongs.”
The childrens home greeted them with warm light and the scent of fresh biscuits. Neat, well-kept, yet the air carried an invisible weightas though every corner remembered what it meant to be left behind. The matron, a woman with kind eyes and a tired smile, led them to the playroom.
“Dont expect it to happen right away,” she warned. “Sometimes, the bond doesnt form on the first try. Or even the tenth.”
But then, the unexpected.
In the corner, slightly apart from the boisterous children, sat a little girl. Small, delicate, yet with a focus in her expression as if she sensed something important was unfolding.
A pencil moved deftly in her hand, her tongue peeking out in concentrationthe mark of a true artist.
“This is Emily,” the matron said softly. “Her parents were never found. She keeps to herself most days.”
Mary knelt beside her. The girl looked upand in that gaze was something deeper than curiosity. Something ancient and familiar.
“What are you drawing?” Mary asked, nodding to the paper.
“A house,” Emily replied, surprisingly composed for a four-year-old. “With a chimney. And birds around it. They bring happiness. I read it in a book.”
Marys heart trembled like a plucked string.
She held out her hand. Emily hesitated, then placed her tiny palm in Maryslight, trusting.
“We have birds in our garden too,” Nicholas said, crouching beside them. “And bees. They make honey. Though sometimes they sting.”
“Why?” Emily asked.
“Only if you hurt them,” he answered. “Everyone deserves to defend themselves.”
Emily nodded thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, she threw her arms around Marys neck. A tear slipped free.
Ninety-two days of paperwork and waiting later, they stood again on the homes stepsno longer visitors, but parents.
Emily stood on the porch, clutching a worn rucksack, courage in her shoulders that didnt yet know confidence. Around her neck hung an acorn pendant, a gift from an older girl.
The farewell was brief. The matron kissed her forehead; a carer wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Go on, love,” she whispered. “Just rememberwell always be here.”
On the drive home, Emily stayed silent, arms wrapped tightly around her bag. When they arrived, she stepped out, pausing as if testing the weight of this new life.
“Is this my house?” she whispered, staring at the lit window of what would be her room.
“Its yours now,” Mary smiled. “And were your family. Always.”
That night, a soft knock roused her. Emily stood in the doorway, clutching her drawing of the houseevery window glowing like a promise.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she whispered. “Just the first night”
Mary didnt answer. She simply shifted closer to the wall, making space. Emily crawled beneath the quilt. The ginger cat, previously dozing at their feet, stretched, sniffed the new arrival, then settled beside her with a purr.
“Youre home now,” Mary murmured, stroking Emilys hair. “No more fear.”
Emily closed her eyes. For the first time in monthspeaceful. Warm. Safe.
Twelve years passed like a single spring morning. Sunlight gilded the treetops; the air hummed with meadow blossoms. Emily, no longer a child but a young woman, helped Nicholas gather honey from the hivesgolden, thick, smelling of summer.
“Take your time,” he said, showing her how to lift the frames gently. “Bees sense unease. Stay calm, and theyll accept you.”
Emily nodded, listening intently. Tall now, with a long braid and the same storm-grey eyes that had once struck Mary so deeply.
“Can I visit Charlotte after lunch?” she asked, carefully scraping wax. “Its her birthday.”
“Of course,” Nicholas smiled. “Just dont be late. Your mothers cooking something special. Tomorrows your day too.”
That evening, they sat on the veranda, hulling strawberries. The air was sweet with lilac and cut grass.
“Mum,” Emily said suddenly, “I want to study at art college.”
“In London?”
“Yes.”
“Thats far.”
“Two hours by train. Not the moon.”
Mary studied her. This wasnt the little girl whod feared the dark. This was a young woman with dreams in her eyes.
“Youre the best artist in the village,” she said at last. “You belong where you can grow.”
Emily hugged her, cheek pressed to her shoulder.
“Ill visit every weekend. Every holiday.”
That night, a storm raged overhead. Lightning split the sky; the wind tore at the trees. By morning, they worked togetherEmily steadying planks, Nicholas hammering, Mary straightening the sagging fence. The wind still tugged at Emilys braid, but the clouds had cleared.
“Look!” Mary pointed to the horizon.
A rainbow arched over the valleyvivid, almost painted.
“You brought the sun, Emily,” Nicholas said. “Before you, we lived in half-light.”
At school, her talent was renowned. Teachers said she had a gift for seeing what others missed. The corridors became her galleryportraits of neighbours, landscapes of the fields, abstracts alive with motion.
“Mr. Hart submitted your work for the national competition,” Charlotte said as they walked home. “He didnt even tell you! I overheard him talking to the headmistress.”
“Really?” Emily froze. “He never mentioned”
“Of course not!” Charlotte laughed. “He said you could win a scholarship. To the Royal Academy.”
Emily went quiet.
“Thats not just college. Thats university. In London.”
“Exactly!” Charlotte beamed. “Galleries, exhibitions, proper masters!”
That night, Emily lay awake, staring at the stars. Something inside her shifted. She knew: her path would soon lead beyond these hills.
The morning of her sixteenth birthday began with the smell of baking and old violin recordsMarys yearly tradition. On the table lay a leather-bound sketchbook, its pages thick, perfect for paints.
“We found it special,” Mary said. “For your journey.”
Emily traced the cover as though it were alive.
“Thank you for everything.”
Neighbours filled the garden. The table groaned with food; Nicholas turned sausages on the grill. Someone brought a guitar. Laughter, songs, warmth. A village celebrationsimple, real.
When the guests quieted, Mary took Emilys hand.
“Wherever you goLondon, anywherewell always be proud. Were with you. Always.”
Emily nodded. She knew.
That was why she could dream.
Why she could step forward.
Her gaze drifted beyond the hills, where the citys outline shimmered.
“Youve given me more than I ever imagined,” she said softly. “More than stars could grant. But something inside me waits as if another life calls from beyond the horizon.”
Then, the black car arrived.
Polished, out of place, it cut through the rustic scene like a drop of ink in sunlight. Conversations died. The guitar fell silent.
A woman stepped out firsttailored beige suit, sharp haircut. A man followed, silver at his temples, glasses perched lightly. They scanned the garden, strangers in this world of birdhouses and honeybees.
Mary instinctively moved closer to Emily.
“Hello,” the woman began, her smile uneasy. “We need to speak with the homeowners. Its important.”
Nicholas wiped his hands on his apron.
“Im the homeowner. Whats this about
