Los Angeles revealed itself to Willow in small, gradual layers—never all at once, never loudly. It was a city that waited for her, letting her find her footing at her own pace, opening doors with a kind of gentle patience she didn't trust at first.
Her mornings began with ritual.
She woke just before sunrise, wrapped in warm sheets, the room washed in a soft, pearly light that made everything feel quieter, kinder. She would sit up slowly, one hand drifting instinctively to the small, growing curve beneath her ribs—a reminder, a promise, a secret beating softly beneath her skin.
Sometimes she whispered to the life inside her.
Sometimes she breathed through the nausea.
Sometimes she simply existed—and that alone was an accomplishment.
