Broken Bridges and New Beginnings

Chapter 1

Lu Xiaolu thought her life was finally taking a turn for the better. The thrill of sharing a bed with the man she'd secretly loved for years filled her with an excitement she could hardly contain. But in a cruel twist of fate, what started as a dream quickly devolved into a bittersweet reality—a one-night stand, devoid of promise or future.

The morning light streamed through the window, illuminating the remnants of what had been a perfect night. Yet, as she turned to his side of the bed, it was already empty. Panic surged through her when she noticed his absence, but a quick glance at her phone confirmed her fears. He had left for a prestigious university overseas, a fresh start waiting for him.

In the days that followed, Lu struggled to process the whirlwind of emotions that ensued. She had expected heartbreak, but she hadn’t anticipated the whirlwind that life had in store for her. She soon found herself grappling with an unexpected pregnancy, a change that would flip her existence upside down. Family dynamics shifted, and before she knew it, she was navigating the treacherous waters of loss and grief after a devastating miscarriage.

Life felt cruelly unfair. She had poured her heart into loving someone who had barely glimpsed her world. She’d spent nights dreaming of what could have been, only to wake up to a stark reality—she had to raise herself while sustaining a family on the brink of collapse.

Months passed, a blur of responsibilities and unanswered questions. Just when she thought she was beginning to find her footing, she stumbled upon an unexpected encounter—walking into her new apartment complex, she spotted him. Jiang Shaoqing. The very man who had shaken her world to its core, now just a few doors down.

Her heart raced, fumbling with the groceries she had just bought. He looked taller, more polished than she remembered, but those piercing eyes still held the same intensity. How could he be so close, yet seem so far away? With the memories of their night together still lingering in her mind like an echo, so many unresolved feelings surged within her.

Would he recognize her? Did he remember their chaotic night? The walls that had built around her heart began to tremble. Lu found herself oscillating between embarrassment and excitement. Yet, in that moment, all she could do was breathe, trying to ground herself in the strangest of situations.

The hallways seemed to stretch forever as she moved toward her door. She could feel Jiang’s eyes on her, a sense of familiarity wrapping around her like an old coat. Every instinct told her to turn back, to hide from the ghost of a love that never truly materialized, but something deeper urged her to face him.

It was all she could do to will herself forward, each step a mix of hope and dread. Just as she reached for the doorknob, she caught a glimpse of him approaching, a greeting forming on her lips, but it dissolved before it could escape. The weight of their past hung heavy in the air—so many things left unsaid.

And in that moment, the past and present collided. Their eyes met, and for a fraction of a second, the world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them suspended in a moment that felt both impossibly quick and painfully eternal.

Lu Xiaolu’s heart thudded in her chest, both anxious and exhilarated. She knew one thing for sure—this was far from over.

Chapter 2

Eleanor's hands trembled as she slid a thin piece of paper across the table to Quentin, biting her lip, waiting for his reaction.

He glanced up, grabbed a bite of noodles, and splashed broth across the wooden table, where it pooled into a tiny, golden droplet. Wiping his mouth casually, he asked, "What's this?"

Eleanor pushed the paper closer, her hand shaking slightly.

Quentin chuckled lightly, shaking off the tension. "Surgery costs? Come on, don't look so serious. You’re making me think something terrible happened." He took the paper into his hands.

Lowering her gaze, Eleanor stole a quick glance at his face. The carefree demeanor had vanished, replaced by an expression dark enough to send a shiver through her. His brows were furrowed deeply, a ferocity brewing behind his eyes that frightened her. She instinctively leaned back, hands gripping tightly at her clothes, her head dropping lower.

Time stretched painfully. Quentin's lips were white from the strain, veins tracing stark lines against his skin. The paper remained crisp in his grip, though his fingers glistened with moisture from the sweat building up.

Still quiet, he stared at her, the air thick with unspoken words. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to echo in her heart, a reminder of the agonizing wait.

Finally, Quentin cleared his throat, his voice held a rough edge. "Whose is it?" Despite his attempt to stay calm, a storm of anger churned beneath, knowing his once-innocent sister was now expecting a child—not just any child, but someone else's. He slammed the paper down on the table.

The sound was like thunder.

Eleanor flinched at the sudden noise, fear coursing through her veins as she looked at the side of Quentin's face, twisted in anger. Biting her lip, she ventured a step closer, reaching for the hem of his shirt as she whispered, "Bro." Her voice trembled with unshed tears.

"You know how old you are, right?" Quentin didn’t turn, his voice chillingly steady.

"19," she muttered almost inaudibly.

"Eleanor, sit down." A strange softness crept into his tone as he pulled her gently into a chair.

Once seated, Eleanor remained rigid, frozen in the same posture, unyielding. She knew he was watching her, scanning her face for some semblance of strength that was quickly fading away. There was fear there, yes, but beneath it lay a haunting courage—for what was she thinking coming to him now? The damage was done. He took a deep breath, working to rein in the tempest of emotions surging within him. "What are you going to do?"

Eleanor bit her lip, shaking her head as tears cascaded down her cheeks. "I... I'm scared."

Quentin brushed away the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes with a gentleness that belied his fury. "Don't cry, Ellie. I’m not mad at you—this is on me for not looking out for you. But if you’re brave enough to bring this to me, you must have some idea of what you want to do. Just tell me."

He rubbed her back in slow circles, trying to calm the storm within her. She had wanted to talk things through, but the dam broke, and her sobs came in great, heaving gasps. Suffering from emotional exhaustion, she couldn’t find the words to convey her turmoil.

Quentin felt a pang in his chest, but he drew her closer, wrapping an arm around her. "Hey, no more crying, okay? We’ll handle this together. Just know I'm here for you."

Eleanor clung to him, feeling both comforted and confused by his embrace. She wanted to be strong for him, too. But then she found herself sobbing into his shoulder, feeling a sense of security she hadn't realized she desperately needed.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally calmed dow, wiping her tears and meeting his gaze. "I want to keep it."

Quentin’s brow furrowed instinctively, his expression darkening. "Whose is it?"

The intensity of his gaze sent chills down Eleanor’s spine. She looked away, unable to answer.

"Eleanor, please. You can’t think you can do this alone. A child needs both parents. Just tell me who." His voice pressure-cooked with desperation.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head defiantly.

Frustration surged within him, twisting his insides. He anticipated he could talk this through, face the music, maybe shoulder some responsibility—but to do that, he needed the truth. But she was protecting him...and the man responsible for her situation. That fact ate at him, jealousy seeping into his veins. "This isn't the time for childish tantrums, Eleanor. We need to confront this."

Eleanor’s heart ached at his words. Tears threatened again as she gazed up at him, vulnerability clawing for release. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "He was with someone else. He... he won’t want me, or the baby. I saw them... together. They kissed. I... I can’t...."

Quentin's grip on her tightened as he absorbed her words, the crushing realization solidifying within him. "Alright, just... stop. Please. We’ll figure this out. I promise you—we’ll raise this child together." He said it for her benefit, but also to reassure himself. As he spoke, part of him clung to the hope that she would remain his Ellie, forever.

Eleanor buried her head into his chest, warmed by the promise of protection he offered. In that moment, amid the chaos of her emotions, she couldn’t help but cherish him—this man who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet remained a bulwark for her.

Eventually, her tears ceased, and fatigue swept over her. She felt herself drifting into a gentler reality, lulled by the warmth of Quentin’s embrace. In that womb-like space, she thought she heard someone whisper, "I love you." But it was a distant echo she couldn't grasp, a fleeting dream of a life that seemed forever out of reach.

Sleep overtook her, comforted by the notion that no matter how twisted her road ahead might be, Quentin would be there, watching over her.

These days, Eleanor was resolved to eat well, rest, and take care of her baby. The man who was involved was clearly not meant for her, and she had no interest in wallowing in it any longer. Life would go on, a lesson learned from reckless choices. The path ahead was uncertain, but she could manage—especially if she had Quentin by her side.

The snow fell heavily one afternoon, covering the earth in a soft white blanket. Eleanor, giddy with excitement, perched by the fire, watching the flakes tumble from the grey sky. She wiped the condensation off the glass, her heart fluttering like a child seeing snow for the first time.

Rowan sat across from her, deeply engrossed in a book. From time to time, he glanced up, eyeing her with a perplexed confusion, as if unsure how to interpret her joy.

Typically, Eleanor and Rowan barely exchanged words. The aloof high schooler often looked down on her plight, while Eleanor dismissed him as nothing more than a smart-assed know-it-all. The two were a mess of contradictions, tangled in circles that only growing pains could sort out.

Rowan was Quentin’s real brother, and Eleanor was his constructed sister—a relationship knitted together by circumstance and the occasional burst of understanding.

But on snowy days like these, beneath the quiet laughter and playful teasing, a fragile alliance began to bloom.

Chapter 3

Eleanor Ashford’s father, Leonard Harrington, was a businessman whose fortunes were stagnant. After years of trying and failing to have children with his wife, Daphne, they made the life-altering decision to adopt a child from St. Benedict's Orphanage. That child was Quentin Ashford, a scrappy survivor barely two years old at the time of his arrival. The universe graced them with Eleanor shortly after, and her jubilant presence—she was a burst of sunshine—brought warmth to the household, making it full of laughter and joy.

As the years went by, their family dynamic shifted in a way that no one could have predicted. Once tentative in their financial endeavors, Leonard’s business began to flourish after Quentin joined the family, who quickly became the center of their universe. Eleanor’s mother, Daphne, often joked that Quentin was their good luck charm; his mere presence seemed to infuse the family with prosperity. They adored him, doting on him affectionately, and he thrived under their care—an earnest and gentle spirit.

All was well in the Ashford household until Eleanor’s fifteenth birthday, when the seams of their seemingly perfect life began to fray. While the family celebrated Eleanor, whispers of Quentin's past crept into the corners of their home. Overhearing snippets of conversations while pretending to partake in the festivities, Eleanor slowly pieced together a chilling truth: Quentin had been kidnapped as a child and later ended up in the orphanage. His biological parents, after years of searching, were finally now on his trail, intent on reclaiming their lost son.

The emotional bonds that formed between Quentin and the Harringtons made the situation even more complicated. Leonard and Daphne were resolute in their intent to keep Quentin, bolstered by legal documentation that affirmed their guardianship and the love they shared. However, during those tense days, Quentin felt the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily on his spirits. The warmth that emanated from his family's love was clouded by a growing sense of doubt—was he truly one of them?

Following those complicated revelations, Quentin often shut himself away from the world. It broke Eleanor’s heart. The ten-year-old—with her pigtails and infectious enthusiasm—would barge into his room, grabbing his hand as if to pull him from the depths of his turmoil. “Big brother! What’s wrong? Why aren’t you playing with me?”

A small smile would break through Quentin's veneer. “It’s okay, Eleanor. I’ll play with you later, alright?”

“Did they bully you? I’ll go punch them!” Eleanor would declare fiercely, eyes big and round with concern.

Quentin found amusement in her innocence and would gently pinch her nose, “No need for that, squirt. Let’s play, okay?” And with that, he would rise, taking her hand and stepping back into sunlight and laughter, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. Eleanor didn’t know it then, but she was a beacon of light, sparking warmth in Quentin’s heart when it felt truly dark.

But tension simmered beneath the surface. Eleanor's parents, who adored Quentin as if he were their own, struggled with the daunting reality of the approaching crisis. There was something predestined about it; matters were growing urgent. Meanwhile, Quentin became increasingly reclusive, sensing the unsaid truths and feeling the shadows of anxiety closing in.

One evening, after spending an entire day playing with Eleanor, they returned home to find Leonard in a foul mood. His recent business ventures had gone awry, and the stress was palpable. Seeing the siblings enter merrily only stoked the fires of his frustration. “You two are always playing! Eleanor is still a kid, but you’re just as childish!”

Quentin blinked, taken aback by his father’s outburst. “Leonard, I—”

Leonard immediately regretted his choice of words. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, reaching over to pat Quentin’s shoulder awkwardly. “Just... don’t overthink it.”

“Don’t overthink it.” It was meant to be reassuring, but the phrase felt like a bandage over a wound, a poor disguise for his unease. Every attempt at reassurance only seemed to deepen Quentin's turmoil as he compared it to how Leonard had treated him before. Something felt off.

In the following days, Quentin’s biological parents ramped up their search for him. The tension reached a boiling point one fateful morning when Eleanor’s mother found herself confronted by Quentin’s mother, crying on their front porch as if it were her last sanctuary. Daphne’s attempts to console her fell on deaf ears, and the scene played out before Quentin's shocked eyes from the safety of an upstairs window, his heart in a tempest of confusion.

Leonard assured Quentin he would never relinquish him, constantly urging him to focus on his studies. Yet, all Quentin could feel while observing his biological mother’s despair was an overwhelming burst of compassion mixed with sorrow.

That night, as Quentin passed by his parents' bedroom, their voices spilled into the hallway, fierce and accusatory. He had never encountered such hostility between them before, and it froze him in place.

“Quincy Bennett, you have to send him back!” his mother demanded, her voice brimming with desperation.

“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s our son now!” Leonard replied, a note of frustration coloring his tone.

“Our son? He’s not mine! You really want to tear this family apart just to hold onto him?” The sound of shattering glass pierced the air, and horrified, Quentin stepped away, his heart racing. He didn’t know how he got back to his room, lost in thought, but he understood now that every party involved acted from a place of love—even if it lead to pain.

That night, a decision settled firmly in Quentin’s mind. He would leave; at least then, his biological parents would find peace, and Leonard and Daphne wouldn’t have to fight anymore.

The very next day, his bold assertion left Leonard in a state of rage, the slap ringing sharp across the room. Daphne, silent and teary-eyed, watched as Eleanor clung tightly to her, unable to comprehend the chaos unraveling around her.

In that moment, the carefree world of childhood faded into the backdrop, and dark shadows encroached, forever altering the lives of those within the Ashford home.

Chapter 4

With Quentin Ashford’s words hanging heavy in the air, his biological parents were emboldened to pursue legal action. Back at home, Edward Davenport felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. Business was in shambles, and when he returned home, it was a chaotic mess. Quentin was still heading over to his old place on weekends, and the Ashford family was stubbornly digging in their heels.

The situation was steadily becoming a stalemate, but something had to give. In a desperate ploy, Quentin's birth parents concocted a story of terminal illness, exploiting his empathy to coax him back into their lives. Unfortunately, around that time, Eleanor Ashford was involved in a terrible car accident. Edward’s business continued to trend downward, and the couple was worn thin, finally agreeing to their parents' manipulative scheme.

Financially strained, Edward feared losing Quentin entirely and began sending money each month. Eventually, his businesses started to stabilize. Running from one country to another, he was often too busy to really be involved. Eleanor was enrolled in college, and Daphne had begun to drift away, busy with her own issues. Still, Eleanor and Quentin maintained a strong sibling bond, communicating regularly.

Quentin's biological parents, the Duans, had initially wanted to change his name, but Reginald didn't sound quite right, so they decided to make do with the situation as it was for the time being.

Just when they thought peace had finally settled in, fate dealt a cruel hand. During his senior year, Quentin lost both of his biological parents in a devastating car crash, and the irresponsible driver vanished without a trace. All that remained were Quentin and his younger brother, Rowan Cecil.

Edward and Daphne stepped in to help with the aftermath. Edward suggested that Quentin return home and offered to help take care of Rowan.

At that moment, Quentin was just skin and bones, his features gaunt and pallid. “Thank you for everything, Edward,” he said, shaking his head. “I can never repay you. If you do anything more for me, I won’t be able to face myself.”

Edward pressed on, “How about I get you a house? You want to take care of your brother, right? Are you really going to sleep under a bridge?”

Quentin lowered his head, silence enveloping him like a fog.

So, Edward arranged for a modest wooden cabin in the suburbs. “It’s cheap, kid. Don’t let it burden you,” he had said, believing the gesture would help keep the boys afloat.

Quentin didn’t understand the supplier connotations but believed Edward’s words; the house definitely wasn’t a shack. Even in its dilapidated state, it could be worth a pretty penny.

By the time he was twenty-two, Quentin was standing on his own two feet, taking care of himself and his younger brother. Meanwhile, Eleanor's once-thriving family was now bankrupt. After entrusting Eleanor to Quentin, Edward collapsed under the pressure and took his own life. Daphne, upon hearing the news of their financial ruin, vanished from Eleanor's life as if she had never existed. The family's friends and acquaintances? They skittered away as though avoiding the plague.

Quentin wrapped his arms around Eleanor, comforting her. “It’s okay, Ellie. I'm here. You’ve got me.”

With tears streaming down her face, Eleanor clutched her brother tightly; he was her only anchor. Now, the small wooden cabin housed three—Eleanor, Rowan, and Quentin, soon to expand.

Today, with snowflakes fluttering outside, Eleanor appeared bright and hopeful. She turned to Quentin, “Aren’t the snowflakes just beautiful?”

Rowan glanced up, his eyes cold, then promptly returned to his book.

Unfazed by his indifference, Eleanor rested her chin on her hand, poking at the hot coals in the fireplace with a stick. “Do you think I still need to study for the SAT/ACT?” she mused aloud.

Rowan jostled the pages, exhaling with annoyance. “Not gonna take them.”

“Then why bother reading? Use your time for something else!”

“Not your concern,” he snapped, muttering under his breath as he abandoned his book and stormed out.

Eleanor couldn’t help but pout, tossing the stick into the fire, watching it sizzle and crackle into the embers. “Little brat,” she grumbled, glancing at the clock. Ten o'clock. Where on earth was Quentin?

He normally would’ve wrapped up work by now. She rubbed her swollen belly and stood gingerly, reaching for her phone. “You better not be out with that kid again. Uncle is going to have to get on your case.” Her steps hesitated as she approached the window. The snow piled high outside—would the roads be too slick? Her gut twisted with worry for Quentin’s safety. Shaking the anxious thoughts away, Eleanor picked up the phone, only to be interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs.

Rowan appeared, gripping the handrail, his face pale as a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” Eleanor asked, her heart racing.

“I-I… Quentin…” he stammered, gasping for breath, unable to finish his sentence.

Her heart plummeted. “What happened? Slow down!”

Rowan struggled for air, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, lit by the fire’s glow. “He… he was in an accident.”

Eleanor’s heart seized. “What? Please, say that again.”

“Someone called. They said he was in a bad car wreck; I’m going to check,” Rowan blurted, rushing past her down the stairs.

Dizzy and overwhelmed, Eleanor grasped the railing for support, but as panic coursed through her, her legs wobbled beneath her. She called after Rowan, scrambling down the steps, but her footing slipped unexpectedly. Pain jolted through her chest, sharp and blinding, filling her with a terror that left her voiceless as darkness consumed her.

When Eleanor regained consciousness, the world around her was an expanse of harsh, empty white. She couldn’t smell anything, and her mouth felt dry and numb. Turning her head, she spotted Rowan huddled next to her, cradling his head in his hands.

“Where’s Quentin?” she managed to whisper, her throat raspy.

Rowan looked up, eyes bloodshot and face ashen. He barely blinked, his voice flat. “He’s gone.”

Eleanor’s stomach dropped. “No. No. Please—tell me he’s okay.”

Rowan’s silence felt like a knife twisting in her gut. He had lost weight, his big eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “He… he’s gone. And your baby—aah, he’s gone too. They both—gone,” he said, his voice hauntingly detached, as though he had transformed into a ghost, empty of life and hope.

Eleanor’s arms felt suddenly heavy, her strength flickering away. She let her head fall back against the pillow, biting her lip, staring blankly at the ceiling, tears refusing to come. There was nothing left to cry for.

Chapter 5

**Old Friends Gone**

The funeral of Quentin Ashford unfolded like clockwork—every moment meticulously planned and carried out. After that day, Eleanor Ashford found herself in a standoff with Rowan Cecil; they spoke not a word to each other but moved in eerie synchrony, like two dancers bound by an unspoken agreement.

For a long time, Eleanor kept her thoughts to herself, not saying anything until it came time for the gravestone to be etched.

Rowan ignored Eleanor’s presence as she approached the stonemason. “Excuse me, can you change the name from Reginald to Quentin?” she asked, her voice steady but her heart unsure.

The stonemason frowned, shaking his head. “I can’t do that. He was called Reginald in life; it’s improper to change that now.”

Rowan shot Eleanor a glare, fury simmering just beneath the surface. Once, Quentin had been an Ashford, but now, in death, he belonged to the Cecil family. Even if the name Quentin was still used, the reality had already shifted years ago. To Rowan, he would always be Reginald, her brother.

Eleanor pressed her case, desperation creeping into her tone. “He was our brother, Rowan, I mean no disrespect. Edward wanted him to be like a bridge—after all, 'bridge' is part of his name. Changing it to Cecil feels like cutting that connection, like a broken bridge. I just want a good name for him in the afterlife... I want him to find a good family. We’re all that’s left now. Can’t you see there’s no point in arguing?”

After a moment, Rowan turned sharply away. He spoke to the stonemason, voice clipped and cold. “Do it,” he said, having surrendered to Eleanor’s plea. He didn’t look back as he walked away, leaving Eleanor with a suffocating sense of loss.

As the chisel bit into stone, uncertainty loomed over Eleanor. Tears streamed down her cheeks, a cascade of grief that she could no longer hold back. She clutched the stonemason’s arm, pleading for him to stop, but Rowan intervened, yanking her away.

“Shut up! Do you think this will make him rest? In life, you were a burden; now, in death, you won’t let go. What do you want, Eleanor Ashford?”

His words stabbed at her, leaving her hollow. She released her grip, wrapping her arms around herself as she fixated on the gravestone. She remained there until the stone was transported to Shadowvale Cemetery, lost in her head, unable to shake the finality of it all.

Throughout the funeral, Eleanor hadn’t cried again, nor had Rowan. They had just grown thin and weary, their cheekbones sharp and vulnerable, like a reflection of their inner pain that neither one could voice. The grief was palpable, even if unspoken.

---

In the month leading up to Quentin’s funeral, both Eleanor and Rowan handled all the arrangements, navigating the sorrow that wrapped around them like an old, heavy cloak. Rowan’s relatives appeared, offering awkward condolences without truly lingering, and then they were gone.

Eleanor had barely begun to recover from her recent miscarriage, her body weak and fragile. At home, she found herself cooking simple meals for Rowan—still a high school student, struggling to keep up with his studies amidst the chaos.

That Christmas, the dining table felt emptier than ever. Eleanor and Rowan sat together, mechanically eating their meals, the television blaring Alistair Blackwood’s comedy sketch, but the laughter it drew from the screen felt distant and unreal.

Halfway through dinner, Rowan received a call from a friend and dashed out the door, leaving Eleanor alone in the silence. She curled up on the sofa, wrapping herself in the chill of loneliness. Moments later, she dialed Rowan’s number, but the cacophony of the karaoke bar swallowed her words.

When he finally picked up, irritation threaded through his voice. “What do you want?”

In the background, she could hear the muffled music and the laughter of his peers. Rowan had always been the good kid who’d rarely made a fuss. But now, his frustration spilled over, leaving her stunned.

“Snow’s falling,” was all she managed to say.

Those three words echoed between them—clearly heavy with loss. Quentin was gone, and so was their future. The weight of despair settled between them.

“Well, I’m coming back,” Rowan sighed, the sharpness fading from his voice.

---

Three months passed after Quentin’s death. Though the authorities hadn’t caught the driver responsible for the accident, the government had compensated Eleanor and her family with a few thousand dollars—an effort, unspoken but clear. They said nothing about it; Eleanor tucked the money away. Every bit was for Quentin’s memory. They needed it now that Rowan was still in school.

As spring began to bloom, Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, contemplating how to stretch their funds to buy Rowan new clothes when a knock interrupted her thoughts.

She sighed, imagining her brother had forgotten his textbooks again. When she opened the door, her heart skipped a beat. It was Isabella Davenport.

Wrapped in a long white coat that glowed against her dark hair, she stood there, basket in hand, her face a mix of sorrow and beauty. Isabella had been Quentin’s girlfriend. Although hardly seen around town, Eleanor knew her well enough. She was a piece of Quentin’s world, and now she stood at the door, uninvited yet hauntingly familiar.

“I came to return some things,” Isabella said softly, her head bowed.

Eleanor’s gaze fell to the basket, her mind racing. Was this filled with trinkets Quentin had given her? Anger surged within her; why was Isabella so eager to sever ties with a man who had once loved her?

“Really, Isabella? Rushing to return sentimental items just because he’s gone? You think he’ll haunt you for them? Such a joke!”

Without looking up, Isabella placed the basket into Eleanor’s arms. “This is just my way of honoring him,” she whispered.

Before Eleanor could respond, Isabella turned and fled. The fading light caught the snow on the ground, making her retreat seem almost surreal.

Eleanor lowered her gaze to the basket and, before long, curiosity got the better of her. She opened it, startled by the sight of a sleeping infant swaddled in soft fabric, eyes gently fluttering open.

A jolt of realization hit her—Quentin had a child. This was his legacy, a tiny life that radiated hope amidst the darkness. Astonishment washed over her, sprinkling glimmers of understanding where despair had lingered.

Eleanor raced outside, desperate to catch Isabella, but she was nowhere to be found. She could only stand there, the weight of the basket—a warm reminder of a future unexpected—cradled against her chest.

Later, after much effort, Eleanor finally learned that Isabella had caught a flight to Avalon Isles to be with Cedric Bennett, her supposed brother.

Now, Eleanor understood. This child wasn’t a burden; it was hope—a future for Eleanor and Rowan.

The coming year was challenging. Rowan failed his exams, while Eleanor managed to care for their new addition. They faced everyday struggles together, but soon laughter began to fill the rooms of their small house.

As summer rolled in, the child thrived. Eleanor delighted in watching him scoot and crawl through the yard, Rowan making mini carts for him to ride while she prepped for the day ahead.

One warm August afternoon, as fragrances of blooming osmanthus filled the air, Rowan burst into the yard, waving a letter excitedly. “Eleanor, I got accepted into The Grand Hall!”

For the first time in years, he called her “sister”—a simple word that wrapped around her heart like a warm hug.

“I did it! I’m going!” he shouted, his face glowing brighter than the summer sun.

Eleanor erupted into joyful laughter, feeling for the first time that maybe, just maybe, life was beginning to offer a glimpse of hope again.

“Finally, Rowan! We’ve got a future worth smiling about!”

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