Epilogue
Aurora
51 years later
The orangish light filters through the open window. The sheer curtains gently sway in the warm breeze, carrying the scent of cornflowers and thyme that caresses my nose.
I stroll leisurely through the room and gaze out at the gentle hills of Tuscany, our shared home for over half a century. Maxime, who must have entered unnoticed, is suddenly by my side. He reaches for my hand, and our fingers intertwine.
With my gaze still fixed on the outside, I tenderly stroke his palm with my thumb. "Sometimes, I can't believe it," I say absentmindedly.
I hear his breath flow, feel his warmth. "Yet, it's true."
"Fifty years." I lay my head against his shoulder with pleasure.
He kisses my temple. "Happy anniversary," he murmurs into my now gray hair.
"Likewise." Smiling, I look up at him. His features are lined, his hair thinning. Yet the same spark that he looked at me with when we first met still shines in his eyes. "Come, our life awaits."
Hand in hand, we stroll to the opposite wall, where our apothecary cabinet stands. Together, we restored this antique piece of furniture—darkened the wood and changed the fittings. Each drawer's front is adorned with a plaque.
Eighty years shimmer in matte gold before our eyes. Every time we stand here, I know that some of these drawers will remain forever empty. But that's not what matters. Most of them are filled with so much life that they almost overflow, and that's what counts the most.
I glide my fingers over the drawers and open one of them. "Look, your train ticket to London," I say with a grin. After our mambo, which we danced in the heart of Paris, he let it expire. Instead, we danced and dreamed the whole night. Dreaming of the life we would lead together from now on.
Of not subjecting ourselves to the pressure of competitive dancing. Because I realized that my mother would always smile when she sees us dance, whether on the grand stages of the world or in our own four walls. Because, in the end, she only radiates happiness when she sees how happy I am.
Of leaving Paris behind and returning to my homeland together with Maxime's mother.
And of one day opening a dance school.
I think about all that and much more as Maxime takes the photo of Sky and me at the Paris airport into his hands. We embrace each other, nostalgic about our farewell yet so carefree. Neither of us could have foreseen the profound changes that awaited Sky in the coming weeks.
"Happiness and sorrow are sometimes so incredibly close," Maxime says, lost in thought.
That's the irony of life. "The year when we couldn't have been happier was..." My voice falters as I remember what Sky had to go through back then.
"She grew from it." Maxime places the photo back and closes the drawer. "And she experienced things she wouldn't have dared to dream of."
Indeed, that was true. Lost in thought, I nod and gently kiss him. Then I turn to another drawer.
"That was one of our best years," I say, even though there's no true "best." Each year was unique, and I wouldn't want to miss any of them.
Together, we glance at the year when we got married here in Tuscany, on my family's estate. The drawer holds not only the wedding invitation but also the dancing couple that adorned the cake, along with countless photos from the celebration.
They show my siblings and me, reunited after everything we've been through. There's Vico with his Hanna, who has changed his life in ways he never thought possible. Camilla's twin girls toss flower petals into the sky, and there's Alessia, swaying back and forth on the dance floor with our father.
His cheeks are flushed, and he smiles blissfully. There was a time in his life when this would have been unimaginable. Nevertheless, I now hold the proof in my hands that he made it. And once again, I realize that each of us must go through dark times from time to time. Sometimes they last for days, sometimes for months, and sometimes for years.
Maxime and I have experienced them too, even multiple times. They are a part of us, woven into our lives. Maxime closes the drawer from our wedding year, and I pause for a moment, gazing at the matte gold fittings of the cabinet. Some of these drawers contain more darkness than light. I open one of them now, fully aware that it will hurt.
On top, there's an ultrasound image. On the white border below the image, there's a date and a name: Adam .
I drew a cross behind it.
I take the picture in my hands and gently stroke the edges. Maxime steps beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. He doesn't need to say more because I know we're thinking the same thing.
Many of these drawers are filled with such pictures. We knew it would be tough, but we wanted to try. Over the years, we've lost eleven babies. Each one we've given a name. Each one we still love to this day.
With tears in my eyes, I place the picture back, while Maxime opens a new drawer. It's the one that squeaks slightly whenever it's moved.
The one that carries our miracle.
A tiny pink plastic hospital bracelet.
"Every storm comes to an end someday," I say, for what Maxime now holds in his hands is the proof of that.
We hoped, we suffered, and we kept picking ourselves up. We accepted our fate, never stopped believing in that future, and faced every setback together.
"And some storms can only be defeated by letting go and trusting that after the rain, there will be sunshine," Maxime adds with a wistful smile before closing the drawer.
Together, we step back. He wraps his arm around me, and I nestle against him, gazing at the countless drawers.
Behind us lies a life filled with light and darkness, joy and sorrow, hope and fear. Now, as it inevitably comes to an end, we have more than we ever dreamed of. And when I look back on all these years today, I am filled with gratitude.
Because I know that we have created this life for ourselves. The storms we had to weather were fierce, and they tested us. But we can't choose our fate. We can only decide how to deal with it.
Maxime and I have made countless decisions together over the past decades. And each one of them has changed us.
Our love has not only endured all these years. It has grown like a tree, with deep roots and strong branches.
With this feeling in my heart, I turn around and offer Maxime my hand in a flowing motion.
He takes it, makes a bow, and draws me close. His warmth and scent surround me.
I sigh, falling into his arms. "I ... had ... the time of..." I begin to sing softly, taking a step back.
Our mambo is far from as smooth as it used to be, the swaying of our hips is limited and angular, the spins are slow. I can't stay on my tiptoes for long, and it's probably been thirty years since Maxime last lifted me for a dance figure.
Yet we dance our dance. Today and for the rest of our days. In the warm light of the setting sun, accompanied by the rustle of the wind and my soft singing.
The mambo is no longer just the dance of our hope.
It's the dance of our life.