With honey-sweet voices, two birds sing a hymn of praise to their Creator,
enhanced with the whispers of wind through the trees on this gentle noon in late January.
Neva's softened hum entwines with their melody as she breathes life into an impressionist painting of a wildflower meadow with delicate brushstrokes.
A smile curls at her lips as she leans back, admiring the page adorned by their wedding photographs in the meadows, the words of Ecclesiastes 4:9–12 written beneath them with a small handwritten note, while her whimsical painting of
wildflowers graces the opposite page.
She wishes she could write a small poem instead of a handwritten note. But her husband will see it too, and despite her passion for poetry, she has never been confident in calling herself a poet.
"It's wonderful," he breathes against her ear.
A small gasp escapes her as her heart skips a beat, only for her to meet the mischievous glint dancing in her husband's eyes.
"You scared me!" she exclaims,
pressing her hands against his chest and playfully pushing him away.
A low laugh slips from him before he leans in to capture her lips in a gentle kiss.
Her smile blooms against his lips as she slips her arms around his neck. With effortless ease, he lifts her from the chair and settles her atop the dining table.
A soft breath escapes her as his warm fingers ease her cardigan from her shoulder, his kisses tracing
a constellation of stars across her skin.
As the rough warmth of his hand beneath her cardigan slips her into a delightful lightheadedness, as though she were drunk on love, she can't help but wonder how insatiable they could possibly be.
One touch kindles a yearning for fireworks, fireworks leave them aching for a blazing crescendo... and for more,
and more, and more of each other.
Just as his fingers slip beneath the hem of her top, the delicate
ting~ of the oven rings out like a
brutal alarm, shattering their daydream.
He lets out a low groan against the crook of her neck, while she can only try to suppress the heat blooming beneath her skin.
He presses his lips to hers once more,
the kiss deepening as her hand slowly glides from his jaw to his chest.
She gently nudges him back, her breathing still uneven. "The muffins..."
He takes her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "I'll get it."
She slips off the dining table, smoothing the rumpled satin skirt falling to her ankles as she watches him pull on the oven mitts, then open the oven.
A gasp escapes her as she notices that the water in the clear cup she had been using for painting has spilled across the table.
She reaches for her diary at once.
"What's wrong?" he asks, setting the tray of muffins on the dining table.
A sigh of relief escapes her as she finds the pages unspoiled.
She shakes her head, looking up at him with a smile. "Nothing. I just thought
all my work had gone to waste."
He smiles back at her, slipping off his oven mitts before stepping toward her.
She leans back with a playful smile, lifting the diary to hide her face as
he braces his hands on the table on either side of her, trapping her in.
A soft chuckle escapes him as he lowers the diary just enough to meet her gaze. "Are you shying away from me?"
"I'm not," she replies, a teasing note of smugness coloring her voice.
He leans in, brushing his lips against hers, cocooning her in a slow, lingering kiss.
As he brushes her hair aside and presses a delicate kiss to her neck, her gaze lingers on her enlivened diary, their photographs adorning one page, and on the opposite,
the wildflowers she had painted, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.
It had been so long since she had started painting again. Between the demands of college in Vernellia, living alone, and then falling in love, wanting nothing more than to spend every moment with him,
she had barely found time to indulge in the many hobbies she cherished.
Above the photographs, their wedding date is engraved: 08/01/2018.
They have been married for more than three weeks now, and by the grace and love of her Father, everything
has been peaceful since that day...
She cannot reach for those memories of the cruise without her soul recoiling into the darkness, yet through prayer and her husband's presence, they have begun to fade,
dissolving into distant nightmares, much like the memories of her parents' accident.
A week ago, she had finally gathered enough courage to ask him about Noah and his father. She had spent the whole night crying in his arms after learning that their names were among the
hijackers' victims on the list of the dead.
Her gaze dims, the radiant pages of the diary blurring into the bleak glimpses of New Year's night. No. She had already mourned the loss of her innocence as much as her heart could bear.
She had let the burning ache flow away in rivers of tears until it reached the ocean of faith she held in her Father.
Yet guilt gnaws at her, for she is half-consumed by the selfish desire to cherish this blessing of togetherness with her husband, and by the overwhelming relief that had washed over her when he told her the hijacking had nothing to do with Ishmael... or Raka, as he called him.
"What took you so far away from me?" he murmurs,
pressing a tender kiss to her cheek.
"I'm just thinking..." she murmurs. "How much had changed since Christmas."
He remains silent for a moment, as though weighing his words. Then, instead, he asks, "Do you miss it there?"
"Not quite," she says. "But I miss Aunt, Uncle... and Emma."
What must they be thinking now that she had been missing for over a month without a single word?
Were they searching for her? Were they worried about her? Were they alright?
She couldn't even share the joy of her marriage with them. And Emma... her only close friend in college.
They had made so many plans for her wedding together. But... who would have known?
Life was a tapestry woven with tangled knots of unforeseen turns and twists.
"You'll see them again," he says. "One day. I'm sure of it."
A small smile touches her lips, and she nods. Then, she murmurs, "I'm hungry."
"I'll make the tea while you get started on the muffins," he says with a smile, before stepping over to the fridge and taking out a bottle of milk.
Her gaze lingers on him as he pours the milk on the saucepan and sets it on the stove.
As he turns on the burner, she too, let's her Father's flame, stirred by the presence of her husband,
burn away the memories that threaten to consume her with their darkness.
A sigh escapes her before she makes her way to the muffins cooling on the rack.
Closing her eyes, she inhales the rich buttery aroma woven with the sweetness of blueberries, chocolate,
and vanilla, the simple fruits of an afternoon spent baking beside her husband.
She takes a vanilla-flavoured muffin, the soft, creamy crumb melting on her tongue as she picks up her diary once more.
"Is it good?" he asks.
"Mm-hmm," she answers, just as his warmth settles beside her at the kitchen table.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he begins reading the verse from the open page. "'Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor.
If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone
who falls and has no one to help them up...'"
His voice continues as she reaches for another muffin, the diary still resting in one hand.
She lifts the chocolate muffin to his lips, and he takes a generous bite.
"When do you think we'll be able to work the soil in the yard?" she asks,
taking a bite of the muffin herself.
"Maybe around mid-Februrary," he says. "The soil's still too wet to work."
"I can't wait to start a garden," she says, smiling up at him.
He smiles back. "Just wait a little longer," he murmurs, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear before leaning in to kiss her.