In the heart of October, every part of her being is overcome by nostalgia and bliss,
even as a hint of sadness lingers, like decaying leaves beneath a garden of blooming roses.
A whisper of air drifts through the parlor window, carrying with it the earthy scent of autumn leaves mingled with the buttery aroma of cinnamon rolls, growing richer as her husband draws nearer.
"Is he asleep?" he asks, his voice soft so as not to startle their baby.
"Not yet," she murmurs, stroking their baby's soft cheek as he nurses, the rhythmic sound of his sucking broken by brief pauses as he breathes.
He sets the tray on the kotatsu table before lowering himself beside her.
She turns to glance at him, only to find his awe-filled eyes fixed on their baby nursing at her breast.
"We still have a lot to pack," she says, reaching for the cup of milk and lifting it to her lips.
"Careful," he says. "It's hot."
Well, she'd rather leave it to cool, then.
"Want to try the roll?" He takes a forkful of the creamy-looking cinnamon roll, gently blows on it, then brings it to her lips.
She takes a bite, the sweetness and warmth melting in her mouth.
"Leave the rest of the packing to me." He takes another forkful of the roll and brings it to her lips, which she refuses with a shake of her head.
"Not good?" A small frown creases his brow.
"It is," she says, adjusting her baby's light-blue beanie, which she knitted herself.
Raised by her aunt and uncle, she had developed countless hobbies from spending so much time at home.
And now she can use her free time to make lovely things for her family. "But I'll have it later."
He takes a bite for himself before placing the fork back on the plate.
"You'll love Turbach too," he says. "And we'll be safer there."
"I don't know anymore," she mumbles. It seems like a beautiful village, remote enough to disappear into and live a quiet life raising their son.
But… Ziriri has become so precious. This is their home... tied to the most beloved memories of her life.
How could they abandon it so easily?
Perhaps it hurts all the more because,
somewhere amidst losing herself in the fulfillment of the life they had built here, she'd dared to believe they could spend the rest of their lives in Ziriri.
"Their strategy is unpredictable." He brushes a loose strand of hair from her French braid away from her neck.
"I'm not gambling my family's safety on the assumption that they won't come back here."
"I didn't say I'm not leaving," she murmurs, hoping he's wrong about the onslaught returning to Ziriri. But they still need to leave.
Armasia had been the closest place to Ziriri to be invaded. Then came a brief lull before their village was preyed upon out of nowhere.
Now the violence has mounted again,
spreading across different communities, and they cannot remain here knowing they could be next.
The Nam-Di is what the violent extremists call themselves, an ideology given form decades ago by a man who sought to refute Christianity and its laws.
What began as mere objection poisoned a myriad of hearts in the name of an antidote, and now, everyone who walks in peace is their enemy. They no longer know what they seek.
In choosing their own desires through their freedom of choice, they have become slaves to their own sins.
A smile tugs at his lips before he runs a thumb over their son's little socked foot, the very foot that has been kicking her restlessly all these months.
"It feels like just yesterday we were wondering whether he'd look like you or me," he says gently. "How is he already here?"
"And look at him, still eating," he says, a chuckle escaping him as he kisses his little foot. "Save some for me, my boy."
A faint smile touches her lips. "He's grown so much since he was born."
"Well, he needs to grow up fast so we can give him more siblings to play with." He gently wraps an arm around her before pressing a kiss to her hair.
She narrows her gaze at him. "I gave birth barely a month ago."
He gives a soft laugh before leaning in to kiss her. "When you're ready, of course."
Truly, all the pain and suffering of pregnancy and birth aside, she would do it all over again if it meant having their little bud of love in her arms,
living this moment her Father had in store for her all along, among the treasures of His many blessings.
"Can you hold him for me?" she asks, adjusting the parted upper portion of her coquette nursing gown.
"Sure," he says. "Come here, my boy." He gently takes their son from her, making soft little noises as he settles into his father's arms.
She buttons her gown when the doorbell chimes.
"I'll get it," she says, rising to her feet.
Another chime echoes as she reaches the threshold, pulling the door open without needing to look at the eager visitor waiting behind it.
"Big sister," Anna whispers, her eyes swollen and her nose flushed, as though she's been crying.
"Anna, what's wrong?" Neva frowns as Anna steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around her.
She instinctively hugs the girl, worry flickering through her as Anna cries softly against her chest.
"Anna," she whispers.
"A—aunt said y—you are l—leaving," Anna hiccups, her cries only growing louder.
Neva's heart softens,
her gaze drifting to Rhett as he steps toward them, their baby held safely against his chest.
"C—can you s—stay, please?" Anna cries, her arms tightening around her.
Neva gently caresses Anna's hair. "We'll see each other again someday," she murmurs,
although she has no idea how the world will unfold before they are given the choice to reunite again.
"N—no." Anna shakes her head against her. "I don't want you to—to leave!"
A quiet sigh escapes Neva.
"I'll put him in his crib," Rhett says. "He's asleep."
She nods, and he turns to leave, casting one last worried glance at Anna.
"Anna," Neva says gently. "Someday, when it's safer, we'll come back again. I promise."
"E—Ella left me, as well," she sobs. "She'll be all alone if you leave her."
Oh… sweet Ella. Remembering her still brings a bitter stab of ache to her chest.
She had been laid to rest in the front yard, beneath a blooming orange polyantha rose shrub,
beside the garden where the chubby little kitty had so adored frolicking after bees and butterflies.
Anna wanted that, too, because she thought Ella would be happier here. How broken Anna had been when she learned of her dear friend's passing, even refusing food for three days straight.
"You can always come visit her," Neva murmurs as Anna pulls away just enough to meet her eyes.
"Can't you at least stay for a few more days?" Anna sniffles.
Neva smiles, gently wiping Anna's cheek. "We've already prepared to leave tomorrow."
They've been preparing for weeks already.
The workshop has been sold; fortunately, they found a good buyer despite the violence spreading around Idavile, perhaps because of the reputation the shop had earned.
Her husband had even sold the beautiful, maroon-cherry-painted Skoda, the one he had painstakingly restored until it looked almost brand-new.
Anna's lips tremble, tears slipping anew, and Neva is helpless, unable to soothe her pained little heart.
"We made cinnamon rolls," Neva says gently. "Do you want one?"
Anna nods, taking a step back as she wipes at her cheeks.
Then she glances around. "Where's baby Rhean?"
"He's fallen asleep. Come in." Neva takes Anna's hand and leads her inside.
"Big sister, you know Aunt Albania has passed…"
"She did?"
Albania Miller, the middle-aged caretaker of the church, had been hospitalized for two months after being caught in the explosion that destroyed the church.
So, she had finally been freed from her suffering.
"Yes," Anna replies.
"An ambulance brought her home a few minutes ago. ...Big sister, when are you leaving tomorrow?"
"Morning." Neva pulls out a chair for her to sit.
Their flight to Switzerland is booked for eleven tomorrow morning.
"Do you want to take some for your family?" she asks, preparing a plate for Anna.
Anna's home had been burned down, but thankfully, Mrs. Barlowe's home was spared, even though it had been ransacked. Now,
the relatives have been sharing the house ever since.
Anna nods in response, and Neva smiles.
Her gaze drifts toward the curtains swaying gently in the autumn breeze, the vibrant yellow and amber leaves framing her backyard. She etches a living picture of her home into her soul, all the memories she has made here, and these final moments she is making now. And she prays,
hoping her memories of this place won't fall away like autumn leaves when the frosty winter wind blows.