The golden light of morning bathed the farm in a soft, peaceful hue. It had been two weeks since Max's parents returned to the farm, and slowly, everything seemed to settle back into a rhythm. The air smelled of fresh hay and tilled earth, rich and grounding. From the kitchen, the scent of cinnamon bread and brewed coffee drifted lazily, wrapping the house in warmth.
Dad was back to the office working, together with Marco and Andreis. Mom spent most mornings in the herb garden, humming softly while the bees floated lazily around her. Even Marco seemed more at ease—at least, when he wasn't keeping a watchful eye on every new arrival or lingering by the window at night.
Max had been offered a position at the company. It wasn't anything huge—just a temporary assignment in administration—but she accepted it with quiet gratitude. She stayed with us in the house, and slowly, our friendship found its rhythm again.
Most evenings, Max and I would have dinner together. We'd talk about everything from the chaos of the past to our favorite foods. I'd listen to her stories from the office, and she'd ask about Andreis.
Speaking of which—
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, brushing out my hair. The light hoodie I wore belonged to Marco, oversized and soft. I tugged it tighter around myself. The house was quiet this morning, as if it, too, was still asleep.
Since the last major threat, Marco and Dad had decided I shouldn't return to the office for now. I didn't protest. I understood. Safety mattered more than pride. Besides, the house felt like a sanctuary these days, where I could think, breathe, and reflect.
And lately… there was a lot to reflect on.
The wooden stairs creaked gently beneath my feet as I descended. The kitchen smelled of warm toast, lemon tea, and a hint of vanilla from the scented candle mom always lit on the windowsill. Max was already there, sitting at the counter and chatting with my mom. A light laugh escaped her lips—something that felt rare and precious not so long ago. Dad, Marco and Andreis seemed to go to work early, I assumed there was an "important meeting" again. I rolled my eyes at the thought.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Max greeted, grinning.
"Morning," I said, sliding into the seat next to her.
"We were just talking about your birthday," Mom said, her eyes gleaming.
"Oh no," I said, mock-groaning.
"Oh yes," she teased. "It's your twenty-fifth, Mia. This isn't just another birthday. It's your day."
Max leaned forward, eyes dancing. "You know she's planning something big, right?"
"I don't want anything fancy," I said quickly, raising my hands in protest.
"You say that every year," Mom said with a wink. "But this year is different."
I raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
Mom leaned in, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "Because it's not just your birthday. It's your transition. Your true becoming. Your father and I want to celebrate you. And… I have a feeling Andreis has something planned too."
I blinked. "Wait—what?"
"Oh, nothing official," she said, standing to refill her mug. "But the way he's been speaking with your father? And the little looks he gives you when he thinks no one's watching?"
Max giggled beside me. "She's not wrong. He's definitely up to something."
I felt my cheeks warm. A soft flutter of anticipation stirred in my chest, but I brushed it away. "Well, whatever it is… I hope it's not too much. I just want a calm day."
Max leaned closer. "With him around? I don't think calm is on the menu."
We all laughed, and the sound echoed warmly in the kitchen.
Later that afternoon, I wandered out to the garden. The sky was painted with soft streaks of orange and lavender. The scent of blooming jasmine carried through the breeze. I sat on the old wooden bench beneath the fig tree, letting the quiet wash over me.
I thought about the years that had led up to this moment. About the girl I had been, and the woman I was becoming. In just one week, I would turn twenty-five. My transition would begin. Everything would change—again.
But something else lingered in the back of my mind. A strange heaviness I couldn't shake.
The last few days, I'd been feeling… different. Not just emotionally, but physically. My body felt slower in the mornings, my appetite was strange, and there was a persistent flutter in my lower belly, like something stirring.
I stood and slowly made my way back inside. The hallway was dim and quiet. I moved to the fridge and scanned the calendar, eyes narrowing.
Then I saw it.
The realization hit me slowly.
Two weeks late.
My breath caught.
Two weeks.
I moved to the bathroom with trembling hands, locking the door behind me. The air smelled of lavender soap and eucalyptus from the small diffuser on the shelf.
I sat on the edge of the tub, heart racing.
Could it be?
I hadn't even thought about it. Not really. But now that the idea had surfaced, everything fell into place—my recent fatigue, the strange fluttering in my stomach, the way food tasted different.
I wrapped my arms around myself, heartbeat drumming in my ears.
A new kind of possibility unfurled in my mind. Not fear. Not entirely. But something powerful. Something… life-altering.
As I sat there, a wave of emotion crashed over me—confusion, hope, anxiety, awe.
I pressed a hand gently to my stomach, whispering to the quiet room, "Is it you?"
The room offered no reply, only the soft hum of the diffuser and the distant chirping of birds outside the window.
This changed everything.
And no matter what happened next… I wasn't the same Mia anymore.