The garden was alive with spring's sweet breath. Birds danced through the crisp morning air, their melodies accompanying the gentle whisper of the breeze through the flowering cherry trees. I sat on our favorite stone bench, my aging fingers tracing idle patterns on its cool surface.
"Isabella? Are you out here again?"
Alaric's voice reached me before he appeared around the hedge path. Even at seventy-three, my husband maintained a commanding presence. His once dark hair had faded to distinguished silver, and lines of wisdom framed his still-piercing eyes. He walked with a slight stoop now, one hand gripping a finely crafted walking cane—a gift from Lysander on his seventieth birthday.
"Where else would I be on such a glorious morning?" I smiled, patting the space beside me.
He eased down with a soft grunt. "Alistair's grandson is about to pull his hair out. Apparently, we're expected for breakfast with the children in half an hour."
