The first days with Amelia Rose were a haze of heat, milk, and wonder—time measured not in hours but in soft newborn breaths, the rhythmic creak of the rocking chair, and the way sunlight shifted across the nursery walls as summer slowly gave way to early autumn.
The rain that had welcomed her birth lingered for days, cooling the world just enough to make the house feel like a gentle cocoon. Windows stayed cracked open, letting in the clean, washed scent of wet earth and fading peaches from the orchard. Inside, the air carried new layers: the sweet, powdery smell of newborn skin, the faint milky warmth of breastfeeding, the sharp tang of diaper cream, and always—underneath everything—the lingering spice of gingerbread from Emily’s kitchen, as if the house itself refused to let go of Chris
Aksara