Month Forty-Two: July
Three and a half years since Killian surrendered.
Three and a half years of survival. Of visits. Of letters. Of counting down.
Three and a half years of being apart. Of raising Sera alone. Of running an empire without her partner.
Three and a half years down.
Three and a half to go.
Isla woke on the anniversary of Killian's surrender and felt—lighter. Not happy. Not relieved. But lighter.
Because they were past the midpoint. Because they were closer to the end than the beginning. Because survival was becoming reality instead of desperate hope.
"Mama, why you smiling?" Sera asked at breakfast. Four years old now. Observant. Missing nothing.
"Because we're halfway there, baby. Halfway to dada coming home."
"Really? How many days?"
"About one thousand two hundred and seventy-five. Give or take."
"That's still lots."
"It is. But it's less than we've already survived. We made it through the hard part. Now we just—keep going."
