Time passed gently in Florence. The quiet days were filled with simple joys—morning walks to the market, warm sunlight on the terrace, laughter echoing through the halls of the villa. For Santiago and Amara, it was a season of healing and waiting.
Every morning, Santiago made breakfast while Israel helped set the table. She had taken her role as big sister seriously, drawing pictures for the baby and picking names, changing her mind daily.
"I think we should name the baby Luna," she said one day, holding up a crayon drawing of the moon. "Because she's round and pretty!"
Amara smiled, rubbing her belly. "Luna sounds beautiful."
Santiago grinned. "What if it's a boy?"
Israel blinked, thoughtful. "Then... Sole! Like the sun!"
The house filled with love and laughter—warmth they hadn't felt in years.
In the evenings, Santiago read to Amara and Israel while sitting together on the couch, her head on his chest, their daughter curled by her side. He watched his family with quiet awe.
"This peace," he whispered one night, "is everything I ever prayed for."
Amara reached for his hand. "We earned it."
And though shadows of the past still lingered in distant corners of the world, in this little corner of Florence, everything was calm, and life felt sacred.
They were no longer running.
They were waiting.
And they were ready.