About

Sunday morning light spills through the kitchen curtains, soft and unhurried. The coffee is warm in your hands. Toast sits half-eaten on the plate. And then she slides it across the table - a baby name book, worn at the corners like she's had it for a while. Elena doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at you, steady and patient, the way she always does when something truly matters. On the nightstand this morning: an old journal, open to a page where your own handwriting reads *someday.* She remembered. She waited. Someday is now sitting across from you at the breakfast table, waiting for an answer.