Diary Entry My twenty-fourth spring
I remember the morning he named our baby. The air was cool, the sun casting its first rays over the meadow, gilding the world in soft gold. We moved in silence, my hand in his, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic rustle of grass beneath our feet.
The beast rarely speaks on these walks—he is always a grump so early in the day. I love the mornings and have come to cherish our strolls: their peace, his presence, the way these things make the world feel lighter, brighter.
He stopped suddenly, his gaze catching on something flitting through the dawn light. A butterfly, its wings glowing like embers, delicate and bold, landed on a wildflower. He murmured, as though the word had always been meant for her:
“Pyronia.”
I followed his gaze, curious. He knelt, his fingers brushing the petals near where the butterfly rested, his movements careful, reverent. “Born of fire,” he said softly, “and yet it lives in beauty. Resilient. Undiminished.”
As he spoke, I felt the faintest movement beneath my hand resting on my belly.
A flutter, as if she, too, recognized the name meant for her.
He stood, his green eyes finding mine, raw and unguarded in a way that still surprises me.
“That’s who she will be,” he said, his voice quieter.
“Our little flame. A spark the darkness can’t extinguish. ”
My beast had named her. And in that moment, I loved him more—for seeing her the way I did, as something bright and beautiful in a world that had tried so hard to destroy us.
Pyronia.
Even now, I can’t think of the name without feeling the sun on my face, without remembering that gentle stirring inside me. She will carry it with pride, I know. Our flame. Our promise.