***
Thalma woke up to unfamiliar warmth.
Not the kind that startled her awake, not the kind that demanded attention but the gentle, patient warmth that wrapped around her like it had nowhere else to be. For a moment, she lay still, listening. The apartment hummed softly with life beyond her room: distant footsteps, the faint clink of dishes, a low voice speaking in a language she was still learning to understand with her heart.
Morocco.
The word settled in her chest slowly, replacing the instinctive urge to brace herself for the day.
She pushed the covers aside and sat up, sunlight spilling through the curtains and painting the room in soft gold. This place didn't feel borrowed anymore. It felt… intentional. As though someone had prepared it knowing she would arrive carrying too much.
Thalma reached for her diary on the bedside table, fingers brushing over the worn edges before she stopped herself. Not yet. Some moments deserved to be lived before they were written.
She stepped into the hallway, barefoot, and followed the scent drifting from the kitchen. Spices. Warm bread. Something sweet simmering gently in a pot.
The home looked so neat, big and beautiful. She didn't get a good look at it since she was too tired by the time we got home from the drive from the airport.
"You're awake," her mother said, turning with a smile that didn't hesitate.
Evelyn looked relaxed here, different from the version Thalma remembered. Softer. Happier. That realization brought comfort and a faint ache all at once.
"I didn't mean to sleep in," Thalma said.
"You needed it," Evelyn replied simply. "Come. Eat."
At the table sat a small girl with neatly braided hair and curious eyes far too observant for her age. She looked up mid-bite and smiled brightly.
"You're my sister," she announced, as if stating a fact she had already decided.
Thalma laughed softly. "I guess I am."
Leila nodded, satisfied. "You can sit here."
She patted the chair beside her.
It was such a small gesture. Still, something loosened in Thalma's chest.
Breakfast passed with easy conversation. Leila talked about school, about a friend who borrowed her crayons without asking, about how she wanted to learn how to bake properly someday. Evelyn listened with practiced warmth, occasionally glancing at Thalma as if anchoring her into the scene, making sure she didn't drift away.
And for once, Thalma didn't.
***
Leila followed Thalma everywhere after breakfast.
It started subtly…small footsteps trailing behind her, quiet humming, the occasional tug on her sleeve. Thalma pretended not to notice at first, but when she turned and found the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor outside her room, staring up at her like she belonged there, she couldn't help but smile.
"What are you doing?" Thalma asked.
Leila shrugged. "Keeping you company."
It was said so casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Thalma sat beside her. "You don't have to do that, you know."
"I want to," Leila replied. "Mama says you didn't have anyone to do that for you when you were little."
The words landed softly—but they landed.
Thalma swallowed. "Your mama talks too much."
Leila grinned. "She talks because she loves."
That afternoon, they sprawled across the living room floor with coloring pencils and half-finished drawings. Leila showed her favorite ones proudly: sunsets, houses with too many windows, stick figures holding hands.
"This one is you," Leila said, pointing to a tall figure beside a smaller one. "And this is me. We're going to the park."
Thalma stared at the page longer than necessary. "I've never been to that park."
"You will," Leila said confidently. "You're here now."
The certainty in her voice unsettled Thalma more than doubt ever could.
Later, while Leila napped and the apartment fell into a familiar quiet, Thalma sat by the window with her diary open on her lap. She wrote slowly, carefully, as if afraid the words might disappear if she rushed them.
"Dear Diary,
She holds my hand like she's always known me. Like I didn't miss nine years of her life. I'm afraid to love her too much… afraid she might grow up and realize I came late."
Her phone buzzed.
This time, she looked.
Tim.
Her chest tightened, not painfully but enough to remind her that warmth did not erase unfinished things. She hesitated before answering.
"Hey," she said softly.
"Hey," Tim replied, relief unmistakable in his voice. "I just wanted to hear your voice. You okay?"
"Yes," she said. Then paused. "I think so."
There was silence on the other end—not uncomfortable, just full.
"You sound different," Tim said eventually. "Lighter."
Thalma glanced toward the hallway where Leila slept. "I feel… held," she admitted. "And I don't know what to do with that."
Tim chuckled quietly. "You don't have to do anything with it. Just don't disappear on me."
She closed her eyes. "I won't. I just—Tim, what if feeling okay makes everything else harder when I come back?"
His voice softened. "Then we'll figure it out. One feeling at a time."
She wanted to believe him.
After the call ended, Thalma sat still, phone resting in her palm. The warmth remained but now it carried weight. Love, she realized, didn't always arrive loudly. Sometimes it arrived gently… and stayed long enough to confuse you.
From the hallway, Leila stirred, calling her name in her sleep.
Thalma stood, heart divided between what was healing her and what still waited unfinished.
And for the first time, she wondered which one she would choose when the moment came.
To be continued...