She returned to her childhood home, a modest house near rolling farmland where she had once learned how to plant, harvest, and endure. There, in a single long night filled with pain and prayer, she gave birth to twin daughters. They arrived crying together, with the same storm colored eyes and the same stubborn will to live. She named them Arwen and Lysa, because they entered the world as a pair and gave her back the pieces she thought she had lost.
Life became narrow but meaningful. Days were filled with feeding schedules, aching muscles, and the kind of love that leaves no room for regret.
Several weeks later, while delivering fresh produce to a county hospital as part of a community program, Elora heard a newborn crying endlessly down a quiet corridor. Nurses whispered nearby, their voices heavy with exhaustion and sadness. The mother had died during childbirth. There were no relatives listed. No one had come.
When Elora approached, the baby wrapped his tiny fingers around hers with desperate strength, and something inside her made a decision before fear could interfere.
“You do not have to be alone,” she whispered, pressing her forehead gently against his.
