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ℑn this idyll, there persists a rhythm. Circadian in its poetry, though unaccompanied by the mortal percussion of a beating heart; no sanguine tide flowing through veins, no pulse declares its dominion. And yet, this house, this home, peopled by the cold and the changeless (save one), is not bereft of warmth. It is steeped in it. It breathes it. It is kept by it. Love, here, is not an adornment; it's the very architecture; the very foundation, with Esme, the Cullen Matriarch, at its core. It binds them in a covenant far more enduring than blood: an unassailable promise of forever, chosen and re-chosen in every silent hour. And the relief, the profound and ineffable solace in the assured continuance of her granddaughter’s life. A permanence. Her existence secured within the gilded, unbreaking chain of their immortality. The youngest bloom in an eternal garden, untouched by decay, luminous in her becoming.

ℋere, within this sanctuary, this amaranthine haven, the ingénue inhales what might be called the scent of home, were such a thing not beyond the senses of her kind. And yet she knows it. Aureate light spills in ribbons across polished floors; it gathers on Edward at the piano, where he plays her song, while beside him, Bella sits in quiet constancy, her presence a sentinel even at rest, her love a force that stretches far beyond the limits of sight. In the adjoining room, Alice arranges flowers with delicate movements, each petal placed as though it were a note in some silent symphony, while Jasper lingers near. Book in hand, gaze intent, attuned always to the invisible cadences of feeling that move through them all. And there, beyond the threshold, where Douglas firs stand in their ancient watch, laughter, bright and unrestrained. Emmett, undone by delight as Rosalie bests him again. Perhaps in some spirited contest of strength.

𝙰nd always, always, him. Carlisle. Her Carlisle. The axis upon which her eternity first turned. The quiet miracle she chose, and was chosen by in return. Occupied in his study, as he so often is, broad shoulders inclined in contemplative repose, one hand absently tracing the margins of some newly published thesis, the other: veined, elegant, impossibly steady, turning each page with the care of a man for whom knowledge is both vocation and absolution. And the door, as ever, remains ajar. For her. Eternally for her. That he might see her when she passes. That he might look upon her not in habit, but in devotion renewed. That he might, in the quiet sanctity of their shared eternity, continue to admire the singular grace of the woman who taught him that immortality need not be endured, but cherished.

She finds their newest addition curled up in her room. A room conceived in adoration. No corner left unconsidered, no detail untouched by Esme’s discerning hand; each fabric chosen, each hue softened or brightened according to the imagined delight of its intended occupant. For this child, this miracle, there would be no limit to what might be given. She has grown since that first snowfall. Her hair, now a cascade of deep wood and molten chocolate, falls in silken waves to her waist. In her, Esme sees Edward and Bella: Indivisible and exquisite. The matriarch enters with the hush of something almost otherworldly; a figure of gentleness and quiet majesty, as though some storybook sovereign had stepped into the realm of the living. She gathers the youngest to her without hesitation, folding her into an embrace.

@dawnade, as ℛenesmee, “I’m sure I don’t think of myself as suffering.”

Something within Esme stirs; a tender, ineffable ache. A mother’s instinct awakening in the smallest shift of breath, in the almost imperceptible tightening of her hold before it softens once more into something infinitely patient, infinitely kind. “You are so loved, my dearest. There's no one under this roof who would not, without a moment’s hesitation, lay down all that they are for you.”

“There is suffering in both worlds that we know.. It's not the absence of it that defines a life, but the grace with which one is held through it. And you, my darling girl, will never have to bear it alone. You will have your joys. Oh, such joys as few are ever granted. You will grow, and learn, and become all that you are meant to be, with time stretched generously before you.” She presses a kiss, blush pink lips feather-light, to her granddaughter's temple. “And should this world, in any of its forms, ever dare to weigh too heavily on you, your grandfather and I will always be here. As we always have been. As we always shall be.”

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#i didn't lie...