A late, warm, balmy noon.
On the soft balcony, Neva sits across from Mrs. Barlowe—a sweet, plump woman with whom she has formed a gentle, easy acquaintance.
They chat, laughter and stories drifting between them. A vintage wooden café table separates them, delicate and aged like the moment itself.
It is the ground month of spring; April has stepped onto the earth with silent grace.
Clouds drift like slow curtains across the sky, veiling the brilliant sun and casting wandering shadows across rooftops with every twist of the wind.
Leaves from ever-constant trees flutter midair, humming quiet harmonies. The floral breeze whispers, stroking Neva's argent-honey skin with its fragrant sigh.
"Your little meadow is blooming proud," remarks Mrs. Barlowe, peering over at Neva's front yard. A white teacup, printed with soft pink flowers, pauses near her lips.
She takes a sip of the fruity, sugary white tea—its floral sweetness refreshing her senses.
Neva lowers her own cup, her gaze wandering over her glowing blooms. A deep smile warms her face, satisfaction blooming quietly in her chest.
For weeks now, she's been bathing in the quiet joy of gardening. She adores the vibrant little meadow she has shaped from her modest, unadorned yard.
It is bordered with lush green ash trees, boxelder maples, wild roses, and climbing ivy. As long as she lives here, she wants her world to remain this close to nature.
Her husband had helped—hands in the soil, money spent freely. Caring and intense, he mirrored her passion, devoting his labor to bring her dream to life. He offered his work, his time, his sweat—all for his lovely wife.
Golden bees and kaleidoscopic butterflies drift lazily above her flowers.
Neva and Rhett's beautiful cottage garden blooms proud and graceful.
"It sure is," Neva replies, a soft smile curving her lips.
Mrs. Barlowe turns her gaze to Neva, her experienced eyes studying her gently.
"You are with child, my dear, are you not?" she asks, drawing Neva's startled gaze to her own.
Neva sets her cup down carefully on its saucer beside a white teapot and a plate of half-eaten cookies. There is no reason to hide it from this kind woman.
"I am. How did you tell?" she asks, curious—her belly barely shows anything at all.
"It's the years, my dear," Mrs. Barlowe says, smiling as she takes another sip of tea.
Neva chuckles quietly, amused. Then, in a sudden swirl of sound, shrill, joyful meows echo across the yard.
In a breeze, Neva gathers up the little orange kitten running toward her—cozy and purring in her arms.
Behind her, Anna rushes in, breath heavy from the chase. Neva greets the kitty with a bright smile as the soft creature nuzzles into her lap, rubbing her cheek against Neva's hand with sweet affection.
"My goodness, dear Anna! Look at you—so tarnished!" exclaims Mrs. Barlowe.
Anna slows her steps, panting but triumphant, glad the naughty feline has finally surrendered.
"Ella is the one to blame!" Anna huffs, collapsing into the chair beside Neva.
Neva offers her a gentle smile, and Anna—now more cheerful—grins back.
"My dear, you cannot always run after the indecent cat," Mrs. Barlowe chides lightly, narrowing her eyes at the smug kitten. Anna pouts, a little flustered.
Ella purrs louder under Neva's loving strokes.
"She loves you, big sister," Anna says, wide-eyed. Ella rarely lets anyone but her father or herself touch her—and yet here she is, melting in Neva's lap.
"You think so?" Neva asks, glancing down at the spoiled kitten.
Anna nods earnestly. "For months she has been running away from home just to be with you."
"Well, my dear Mrs. Lei," Mrs. Barlowe continues, "may I ask—how far along are you?"
Neva turns toward her. "Almost four months," she says.
"Oh," Mrs. Barlowe murmurs knowingly.
"Months concerning what?" Anna asks, having only caught the tail end of the conversation.
Neva blushes, unsure how to answer.
"The child, dear," Mrs. Barlowe replies with a kind smile. "Mrs. Lei is carrying a little babe."
Anna gasps, astonishment widening her eyes. "Really? There's a baby in your tummy?" she asks, leaning in closer.
Neva nods shyly, lips softly smiling.
"Is it a boy or a girl?" Anna's eyes are fixed on Neva's belly, full of wonder.
"We don't know yet," Neva says, warmth threading her words.
"I shall be here to aid you through the journey of motherhood, my dear," Mrs. Barlowe assures her. "Call, and I will come."
Their cottages are close—though Neva's is more tucked away, hidden in the quiet edge of the peaceful neighborhood.
Neva's heart warms.
Deep inside, beneath the surface of her joy, she still harbors a small, frightened doubt—can she care for her child well enough?
Her husband has been endlessly supportive, endlessly present.
But the kindness of another woman, one who has lived through it, steadies her. Her chest fills with quiet peace.
⑅ ⑅ ⑅
Evening falls quickly.
Rhett has returned home and showered fresh. Now he helps her in the kitchen—cutting, stirring, sharing pieces of their day from opposite sides of the counter.
Laughter lingers. His chest presses against her back, his arms wrapping snug around her waist. He sneaks kisses to her cheek, then her neck. He slips the soft sleeve of prairie dress off her shoulder, his lips tracing her skin with slow affection.
She sets down the knife on the chopping board—half-chopped green broccoli and slender asparagus scattered across it. Her hands fall back to grip his larger ones.
She exhales, soft and light, melting into his hold.
Just then—
A burst of violent knocking, the restless doorbell ringing over and over—shatters the quiet, peaceful night.
Neva jerks, heart pounding. She turns to Rhett, fear written across her face.
He pulls back from her neck with a quiet sigh, fingers brushing her dress back over her shoulder. He steps away, eyes sharp, frame taut with tension.
"Stay inside," he says simply, walking toward their bedroom. He returns quickly—headed now for the front door.
Neva follows, shaken. She clutches his arm, tears trembling at the corners of her eyes.
"It's alright, Angel. We knew this might come," Rhett murmurs, seeing the fear etched across her face.
He cups her cheek, kisses her forehead, and gently squeezes her hand.
Peering through the peephole, he scowls. Then he glances back at Neva—still clinging to him.
"It's fine," he repeats, low and calm.
He opens the door.
Two women stand outside. And behind them—two boys in wheelchairs. Unmoving.
The hyenas.
The ones who tried to consume Neva's soul around two months ago.
The shadows return—not by stealth, but knocking at her front door.