The morning after Hemsworth's arrest, Blackwood felt different. Lighter. Sandra stood in the nursery—a room that had sat empty for decades, now meticulously prepared—running her fingers along the edge of a beautifully carved cradle. Sunlight streamed through the newly cleaned windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The faint scent of fresh paint and lavender lingered, a promise of new beginnings.
Paul's footsteps echoed in the hallway before he appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. He carried a small wooden box, his expression unreadable. "I thought I'd find you here," he murmured, stepping inside.
Sandra smiled, her hand instinctively resting on the slight curve of her abdomen. "It's peaceful. I like imagining what it will be like when—"
"When they're here," Paul finished, his voice rough with emotion. He crossed to her, setting the box on the nearby dresser. "I brought something. For the nursery. For... for them."
Sandra lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a silver rattle, exquisitely crafted, its handle engraved with intertwined roses and thorns. Her breath caught. "Paul, it's beautiful."
"It was Isabella's," he said softly, tracing the engraving with one finger. "Meant for our... for the child we never had." He swallowed hard, his grey eyes shimmering in the sunlight. "I want our baby to have it. To know that love, even lost love, is part of their story too."
Sandra's vision blurred. She reached for him, her fingers threading through his. "They'll know," she whispered. "They'll know about Isabella. About Eleanor and Clara. About the darkness we walked through to bring them into this light." She lifted the rattle, its gentle chime like a whisper from the past. "The Barton name carries weight. But we get to decide what that weight means now."
Paul's arms encircled her, his chin resting atop her head. Outside, the wind rustled through the gardens, carrying with it the scent of blooming roses—Isabella's roses, now joined by new plantings, new life. The ghosts of Blackwood would always be there, Sandra knew. But they were no longer shackles. They were reminders. Of resilience. Of love that endured. Of a future being built, stone by stone, from the ashes of the past.
The baby kicked suddenly, a strong, unmistakable flutter. Paul gasped, his hands splaying over her belly. "Was that—?"
Sandra laughed, the sound bright and clear in the sunlit room. "That," she said, covering his hands with hers, "is the future, Paul Barton. And they're ready to meet us."
As the rattle chimed again in the breeze from the open window, the shadows in the corners of the nursery seemed to sigh and settle. Not gone, but at peace. The weight of the name, the legacy, the love—it was theirs to carry now. Together.