Chapter 127. Love, Mom and Dad

ARDEN

The crest clicked open with a quiet sound, yet I felt it somewhere deep inside my chest.

Inside was a folded piece of paper, creased with time, yellowed at the edges. My hand trembled as I retrieved it. The parchment was fragile between my fingertips, as though it had been waiting years to be read. I stared at it, unable to breathe. Should I?

I wasn’t ready.

I didn’t feel ready.

But something in me whispered. You have to.

So I let out a breath. And I opened it.

Two handwritings—wild, messy, overlapping in places. One curving and fluid, the other sharp and angular, as if it were written in excitement and nervousness. But they looked… happy. Like love had spilled right out of their pens.

Hi, future son or daughter,

We don’t know your name yet. Or if you’re even born yet. Or if you’ll end up with your mom’s stubbornness or my crooked nose (Hopefully neither).

But if you’re reading this—hello, sweetheart. You’ve made it.