The Past of Hurt and the Birth of Sacred days

Ishmael walks into the master bedroom—eyelids heavy, vision smudged by exhaustion. Tousled hair falls over his nape, soft strands stirred by the mellow air.

Instinctively, his gaze hunts for his wife—on the bed.

She's not there. Nor does her warmth linger in the cold agape spaces of this vast room.

His brows furrow, creasing the honeyed skin between them.

His eyes drift toward the white, cozy crib with two small compartments. And slowly, he walks over.

A faint curve rises on his lips.

The two tiny souls he shares with the woman he's devoted to—the only one he has ever adored. He never thought his heart could thrum in rapture for anyone but her.

But here they are—his children. Birthed by Neva.

They are beautiful...

And so breathtakingly serene in sleep.

His glistening eyes mirror the quiet melting of his heart. He swallows the lump in his throat, trying to contain the swell of joy, for he has always feared that oceans of happiness summon the grave of misery.

He smiles at Inaya's little puckered lips.

Her little hands in fists.

His calloused fingers reach, trembling, to graze the softness of her warm cheek, tucked in a beige-pink sleepsuit under a tiny blanket.

The touch shudders him.

A tingling surges through his fingertips, warmth rushing through his veins. Her skin—velvety and small—ignites a euphoric ache he cannot explain.

He pulls his hand away reluctantly.

Then his gaze shifts to the little boy dreaming beside her. A rare, tender bloom softens his features. The twins—they turn a perfect month old today.

A shaky sigh escapes his lips.

He would do anything—everything—to protect this family.

His world.

The only meaning in this once incoherent existence.

He paces to the open balcony, drawing in a long breath.

Tension begins to loosen.

Neva rests curled up in the vast, swinging lounge chair, cocooned beneath a thick duvet. Her eyes trace the backyard garden... and beyond the walls, the naked woods lie powdered in snow.

But her gaze—pale, hollow—reflects only the sunlit beauty without anchoring it to memory.

Not the miracle of noon's golden rays,

Not the white woods or the garden blooming with scarlet winter roses.

Everything is distant to her.

"Neva,"

His deep voice threads into her awareness.

She turns her head to look up at him.

"Have you finished work?" she asks gently.

He smiles. "I have."

He's been buried in his cabin for most of the day.

It's unbearable—to be apart from her for even a heartbeat.

He sits beside her, and without thinking, his arms wrap around her.

He rests his head on her shoulder, eyes falling shut, breathing her in.

She's his music. Her warmth, her quiet breath, her very presence is his home.

"It's cold," Neva murmurs. "Get under the covers."

He nods wordlessly, still leaning into her.

He's always drowsy around her—drunk on the scent of sweet purple grapes that seems to hover in her presence.

Neva nudges him gently, but he stays firm, unwilling to part.

So she shifts just enough to unwrap an edge of the duvet and pull it over his body.

He leans back into her again, pressing her against the backrest of the swaying chair.

They lie together, entangled, his weight pressing into her, almost unbearably.

She sighs, running her fingers through his long, smooth locks.

The sky is a swirl of slow-turning sun in bright blue.

Snow slowly melts from pine trees, from bare branches and drip onto the ivory ground.

A breeze dances around them, ruffling her loose onyx waves, brushing her rosy cheeks, and sending a sharp chill through her bones.

"Do you want me to get another blanket?" Ishmael asks, his voice vibrating in sync with their breathing—a tender echo in her soul.

"It's fine," Neva replies, a little flustered, lost in a daze.

He lifts his head and looks into her eyes.

And is he undone.

Lost—utterly—inside those wide cocoa pools lined in glistening gold.

His own warm autumn.

"Is something wrong?" she asks, brows arching in concern.

He shakes his head, nestling his chin on her chest, eyes still tangled with hers.

"You're a feeling beyond paradise," he whispers.

"Every phrase and belief that's ever existed fails to define what you are to me."

She stares, stunned—cheeks blooming feverish pink.

Clearing her throat, she turns her face away.

He chuckles softly, gazing at her shy expression, brushing her flushed cheek with his knuckles.

They stay there for a long, quiet while.

Then Neva bites her bottom lip, courage gathering.

A memory claws at her—a brutal, lingering ache.

That day…

The fragile newborns—at the mercy of a pistol's aim.

Her own throat, scraped by the edge of a cold blade.

Maria's corpse—minced flesh, blood, splattered across her face like a curse.

Her throat tightens.

She touches the faint scar Maria left behind—a thin, raised line, still tender to the cold.

She swallows.

Her spine stiffens.

Dread returns like a fog.

And she remembers—

It was Ishmael who blew her wrist apart.

"Ishmael," she whispers, hesitant. "Can I ask you something?"

A soft hum answers her.

"Do you... kill people?"

The question hangs.

Ishmael tenses. He had expected this—someday.

"Yes," he answers.

Her body stiffens in his arms.

"If I don't... they will," he adds quickly.

A frown clouds her face.

"What does that mean?" she presses.

He breathes deeply.

"It means... I didn't grow up easy. I was a homeless sixteen-year-old in a world I didn't belong to. One night, I saw a teenager being beaten up in an alley. I stepped in. Got beaten up myself."

Neva listens quietly, empathy and confusion blending in her gaze.

"That boy was Jacob. You've met him," he says.

She nods faintly, urging him on.

"His father wasn't just anyone. Jacob pleaded with him—and they took me in.

His father... I looked up to him. A man who rose from dirt to gold."

"But no amount of blood, sweat or tears could have made him the drug lord he became. Not even the purest toil can build an empire like his—there's always blood in the foundation of such power."

His voice drifts—nostalgic, yet aching.

Neva notices the change and gently rubs his back.

He offers her a small smile.

"I wasn't spared either," he continues.

"I chose that life. That choice made me powerful, yes—but it also made me a target.

It left me no option. But to kill, or be killed."

Their eyes meet.

Neva's watery gaze softens him.

"Where did you sleep, before Jacob?" she asks, unconsciously squeezing him tighter.

"Alleyways. Under bridges. In underground stations... anywhere."

Neva gasps—tears escaping her eyes.

"And what did you eat?" she chokes out.

"Sometimes I stole. Sometimes I ate from bins. Rancid bread, spoiled fruit—anything to quiet the hunger clawing at my ribs."

She breaks. A sob rattles out of her.

He straightens, lips on her forehead, gently gathering her in his arms.

Her quiet cries pierce him.

He buries his face into her neck. She clings to him, broken and overwhelmed.

And then—

A sharp cry slices through the air.

Followed by another. The twins.

"They're awake," Ishmael murmurs.

Neva wipes her tears with her sweater paws, trying to smile.

"I'll get them," she offers.

But Ishmael presses her shoulder, keeping her still. "Let me."

She stays behind, watching.

He returns quickly—cradling their babies, one in each arm, soothing them tenderly.

Neva rises and gently takes Isaiah, still wailing. He quiets in her arms, soothed by the rhythm of her sway.

Their hearts sigh in shared relief.

She glances down at Inaya, nestled in Ishmael's chest—wide, wet eyes blinking at her mother.

Neva meets Ishmael's gaze.

They share a knowing, gentle smile.

She had only ever appeared in his dreams.

But now—she stands beside him.

His Neva. His wife.

The mother of his children.

He drinks in the reality, unwavering.

She peppers their babies with kisses, whispering words of love.

Desire stirs in his chest, deep and slow—

A dizzying, holy ache.

The past of hurt is over.

But pain is a thread he's learned to carry. And now—this moment, this family—sews it into something sacred.

These children are the promise of new beginnings. And their days ahead—luring hope of bright, warm, and sublime.