Life at Serenity Pines settled into a quiet, measured rhythm.
Each morning, Lu Huai, now Lily, woke with the sun. The light here was different. It filtered through the dense canopy of redwoods, dappling the forest floor and the wooden floorboards of her cabin in shifting patterns of gold and green. There was no alarm. No schedule beyond the gentle, insistent pull of the new life inside her.
She would make a simple breakfast. Oatmeal with berries from the retreat's garden. A slice of whole-grain toast. Herbal tea. The act of preparing food, of eating slowly at the small table by the window, felt like a forgotten ritual. In Los Angeles, meals were often snatched between meetings, analyzed for calories, photographed for sponsors. Here, food was just sustenance. It was peace.
After breakfast, she walked. Dr. Vance, Eleanor, had prescribed gentle, daily exercise. The retreat's grounds encompassed miles of maintained trails that wound through the ancient forest. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and pine resin. The only sounds were the crunch of her shoes on the path, the distant call of a jay, the wind whispering secrets through the tops of the towering trees. Sometimes she would stop, her hand resting on the trunk of a redwood that had stood for a thousand years. Her problems, her fame, her fears, felt microscopic against that scale. Ephemeral.
Her afternoons were for reading. The cabin had a small, curated library. Classics, poetry, books on botany and stars. She avoided anything related to film or celebrity memoirs. She was rediscovering the simple pleasure of falling into a story that had nothing to do with her. Sometimes, she dozed in the oversized armchair by the fireplace, a book open on her lap, lulled by the profound silence.
Twice a week, she visited the main lodge for appointments. Eleanor was thorough but never clinical. The exam room was warm, lined with books, more like a study than a sterile medical suite.
"Everything is progressing perfectly, Lily," Eleanor would say, her hands gentle and sure as she moved the ultrasound probe. "Strong heartbeat. Good growth. You're taking excellent care of yourself."
On the screen, the grainy black and white image had evolved. The tiny bean was now unmistakably a baby. A profile emerged. A nose. The curve of a spine. During one visit, the baby moved, a sudden, swift kick that fluttered across the ultrasound screen. Lu Huai gasped. It was one thing to know intellectually. It was another to see it, this independent, vital motion happening inside her.
Eleanor smiled, capturing a still image. "Say hello."
Lu Huai took the printout afterward, holding it with a reverence that felt new and raw. This was her evidence. Her reason. This blurry, miraculous picture was worth more than any Oscar.
One afternoon, about a month into her stay, the rhythm shifted. She was returning from a longer walk, her cheeks flushed from the cool air, when she saw a car she didn't recognize parked near the main lodge. It was a sensible, late-model sedan, dusty from the mountain roads. A visitor.
A flicker of old instinct sparked. Caution. The desire to retreat unseen to her cabin. But before she could, the lodge's front door opened, and Eleanor emerged with a woman. The woman was in her early thirties, with a kind, tired face and hair pulled into a messy bun. She held the hand of a little girl, about four years old, who was clutching a well-loved stuffed rabbit.
Eleanor saw Lu Huai and waved her over. The instinct to flee intensified, but Eleanor's expression was calm, open. This was part of the life here, she realized. Not everything was a threat.
"Lily, this is Sarah," Eleanor said as Lu Huai approached. "And this is Chloe. They're staying in the Maple cabin for a few weeks. Sarah, this is Lily. She's in the Aspen cabin."
Sarah offered a tentative smile. "Hi. Nice to meet you."
"Hello," Lu Huai said, her voice a bit stiff from disuse. She looked down at the little girl, Chloe, who was peeking at her from behind her mother's legs. Big, curious brown eyes.
"Say hello, sweetie," Sarah encouraged gently.
"Hello," the little girl whispered, then buried her face in the stuffed rabbit.
"Chloe is going to be a big sister soon," Eleanor explained warmly. "We're just getting her used to the idea. And giving Sarah some rest before the new arrival."
"Congratulations," Lu Huai said, the word feeling formal but sincere.
"Thank you," Sarah replied, the tiredness in her eyes momentarily lifting. "It's… a lot. But it's nice here. Quiet."
An awkward silence fell. Lu Huai was acutely aware of her own isolation, the fortress walls she had spent a month carefully rebuilding around herself. But Eleanor's presence, and the simple, weary normalcy of this young mother, made those walls feel suddenly unnecessary. And lonely.
"Would you… like to come for tea tomorrow?" Lu Huai heard herself ask. The offer surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise Sarah. "I have some peppermint. Eleanor says it's good for…" She gestured vaguely.
Sarah's face brightened. "That sounds lovely. Thank you. Maybe mid-morning? After Chloe's nap?"
"Mid-morning," Lu Huai confirmed. They exchanged a few more polite words before Sarah led Chloe back towards their cabin.
After they were gone, Lu Huai stood with Eleanor on the porch. The older woman looked at her, a knowing glint in her eye. "That was nice of you, Lily."
"I don't know why I did that," Lu Huai admitted quietly.
"Yes, you do," Eleanor said, her tone matter-of-fact. "We're not meant to be islands. Especially not now." She patted Lu Huai's arm. "Peppermint tea is an excellent choice."
The next morning, Lu Huai found herself cleaning the already-spotless cabin with a nervous energy she hadn't felt in years. It wasn't the pre-interview jitters or the panic before a big premiere. It was the simple, terrifying anxiety of inviting another person into her space. Her real space. Not a set, not a persona.
Sarah and Chloe arrived precisely at eleven. Chloe held a small, slightly crumpled wildflower in her fist. "For you," she said, thrusting it towards Lu Huai before darting behind her mother again.
Lu Huai took the flower, its petals already wilting. "Thank you, Chloe. It's beautiful." She found a tiny juice glass, filled it with water, and placed the flower in it on the table. The gesture seemed to please the little girl immensely.
The tea was stilted at first. Sarah was clearly a private person, wary of prying. Lu Huai, for her part, had spent a decade perfecting the art of deflecting personal questions. They talked about safe things. The weather. The trails. The surprisingly good bread from the bakery in Willow Creek. Chloe played quietly on the rug with a few wooden blocks Lu Huai had found in a cupboard.
Then Sarah, looking at Chloe, said softly, "Her father doesn't know. About the new baby."
Lu Huai stilled, her teacup halfway to her lips. She set it down carefully. "Oh?"
Sarah shrugged, a gesture that conveyed a world of weariness and resilience. "He left when I was pregnant with Chloe. Sent a check every month, but that stopped last year. I don't know where he is. Don't much care, to be honest." She looked at Lu Huai, her gaze direct. "It's easier this way. Cleaner. It's just us."
The words echoed in the quiet room. It's just us. Lu Huai felt a strange sense of recognition, of kinship. Here was another woman, in vastly different circumstances, making a similar choice. Building a family on her own terms.
"It is," Lu Huai found herself agreeing, her voice low. "Cleaner."
Something unclenched in the room. The conversation didn't become deep or confessional. But the caution bled away. They talked about morning sickness remedies. About the peculiar cravings. Sarah laughed about wanting pickles with peanut butter. Lu Huai admitted to a sudden, intense obsession with fresh peaches.
When Chloe started to get fussy, Sarah gathered her up. "We should get back for lunch. Thank you for the tea, Lily. Really."
"Anytime," Lu Huai said, and realized she meant it.
After they left, the cabin felt different. Not empty. The ghost of companionship lingered. The wilting wildflower in its juice glass sat on the table, a small splash of defiant color.
That evening, during her nightly check-in on the secure, hardwired terminal in the lodge's office, she had a brief, encrypted video call with Miranda. Her publicist looked exhausted but triumphant.
"The narrative is holding," Miranda reported, her image pixelated but her voice clear. "The Swiss chalet story has taken root. There are paparazzi camped out in Zermatt, of all places. Your 'team' is issuing stern 'respect her privacy' statements. The studio is finally backing off, shifting their Oscar campaign to the supporting actress. It's… quieting down."
"And the other matter?" Lu Huai asked, her voice neutral.
Miranda's expression tightened slightly. "No movement. No inquiries that I can trace. It seems your… discretion… has been matched." She meant the father. The ghost. "How are you? Really?"
Lu Huai thought of the walk in the woods that morning. The ultrasound photo tucked in her book. The taste of peppermint tea and the sound of a little girl's laughter. "I'm well, Miranda. Truly."
Miranda studied her face through the screen. "You look different. Rested."
"I am."
"Good." Miranda's smile was small but real. "Keep resting. I've got the watch here."
After the call ended, Lu Huai sat in the dimly lit office. The only light came from the monitor and a green-shaded desk lamp. Through the window, she could see the dark shapes of the trees against a star-dusted sky. It was a vast, impersonal beauty. It should have felt isolating. Instead, for the first time, it felt like a shelter. A cocoon.
She placed a hand on her belly. She was no longer just Lu Huai, the actress in hiding. She was becoming someone else. Someone with a neighbor for tea. Someone who received wilted flowers from a shy little girl. Someone whose world was slowly, tentatively, expanding to include more than just her own fear and determination.
The baby moved then. A distinct, rolling sensation that was no longer a flutter but a firm, undeniable push from within.
"Okay," she whispered to the silent, kicking life inside her. "Okay. I see you."
She sat there in the quiet dark for a long time, just feeling the movement, watching the stars through the window. The rhythm of the retreat was no longer just about stillness. It was about a slow, quiet unfolding. A preparation. And for the first time since she saw those two lines on the test, a flicker of something besides resolve stirred in her heart. It felt suspiciously like hope.