75

"Mom, you're gonna crease the envelope if you keep touching it like that." Liana's voice was teasing, but her eyes darted between her parents, hunting for clues.

Amara's grip on the Manila folder relaxed. "It's… it's just paper."

"Paper that says 'International Arts Scholarship' and 'all expenses paid,'" Leo said, leaning over Liana's shoulder to read the letter. "And there's this part where they apply the word 'genius' and 'once-in-a-lifetime.'"

Liana's smile was a tremulous flutter. "They must be talking about the terrarium project. The succulents did look traumatized in that time-lapse video."

Amara's heart squeezed up. The letter had arrived that morning, its gold embossing glinting like a promise she was unable to keep. "They require you in Paris. For two years."

Leo's smile fell. "Paris. the Eiffel Tower, baguettes, and. no parental units for 7,000 miles?"

Liana kicked his shin beneath the table. "Classy. But yeah. Full scholarship. Studio apartment. Even a stipend for 'creative exploration.'"

Amara's throat seared. "And… and you want to go?"

The question hung, delicate.

Liana's gaze dropped to her sneakers. "I… I think I have to. The scholarship's not just for art. It's… it's therapy. Like Dad's meetings but with paint and nobody forcing you to tell your 'rock bottom.'"

Leo’s hand found Amara’s under the table, his thumb brushing the scarred knuckle. "We’ll miss you."

She squeezed his fingers, the unspoken we’re finally mending a ghost in the room.

That evening, as Leo folded laundry in the living room, Liana appeared in the doorway, her violin case slung over her shoulder.

"Practicing for the flight?" He nodded toward the instrument.

She cringed. "For goodbyes. Ms. Chen said my vibrato's 'emotional but needs control.'"

He patted the couch arm next to him. "Sit. Talk. Distract me from the fact that my baby's going to be a French artist."

She sank down onto the cushions, her laughter full-bodied. "I'll send postcards. With existentialist quotes and shots of croissants."

He feigned horror. "Croissants? Since when are you a food snob?"

"Because you forced me to try that 'artisanal' peanut butter last week. It was basically tree sap."

Their banter dissipated the tension, at least temporarily.

Leo's expression softened. "You know… when I was your age, my toughest decision was whether to major in economics or business. No art schools. No scholarships. Just… spreadsheets."

Liana's expression became reflective. "Do you… do you ever regret taking no risks? Like, flying to Paris or anything?"

He hesitated, the old ache surfacing. "Every day. But risks… they’re louder when you’re alone."

She reached for his hand, her touch grounding him. "I won’t be alone. Just… further away."

Amara found them on the couch hours later, Liana’s head resting on Leo’s shoulder as they watched some black-and-white French film Liana had insisted was "mandatory viewing for future expats."

She was in the doorway, the scholarship letter still warm in her pocket.

"Liana?"

She spoke softly.

The teenager sat bolt upright, her cheeks flushed. "Yeah?"

Amara held out the letter. "They've mentioned an option of family visit. Summer holidays. Maybe holidays."

Liana's breath caught. "But… you've just got us back on track. What if I mess it up 7,000 miles away?"

Amara's laugh was shaky but real. "You think distance is what killed us? We were lost in the same house. This… this could be our reset."

Leo appeared at Amara's side, his presence a gentle anchor. "Besides, if you hate it, you can come home. And we'll blame it on the croissants."

Liana's smile split through, dazzling and unshielded. "Deal."

The next morning, as she loaded her best drawings into an old trunk, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

"Congratulations. The timelines' coming together. But don't forget—the box in Portland's not only for your parents. It's for you as well."

Liana's hands trembled as she opened the message.

Amara was in the doorway, sensing the shift. "Okay?"

Liana showed her the message.

Amara's breath caught. "Who…?"

The message ticked again

"Beyond a safety deposit box is opened with the key. It's an entry into what could have been. And perhaps still can."

-------

"Mom, if you keep lingering, I'm going to start paying rent on space to breathe." Liana shut her suitcase hard, the wheels creaking on the wood floor.

Amara's chuckle was like cracked glass. "Just in case you'd forgotten something."

"Like what? My passport? My dignity?" Liana smiled, but she looked down the corridor where Leo had disappeared an hour ago, supposedly to "get something."

Talking of disappearing acts…

"Where's Dad?" Amara's voice dropped low.

Liana shrugged. "Said he had a surprise. Probably just a half-burned care package."

The front door creaked open.

Leo was there, holding a leather-bound journal, its edges frayed but still intact.

Liana's breath caught. "Is that…?"

"The hospital journal," he growled. "The one I kept when you were having your chemo. The one I. uh. filled with bad poetry and cringe-worthy dad jokes."

She trembled to take it from him. Yellowed pages, the ink at times smudged, as if written hurriedly or with tears.

"Page thirty-seven," he breathed.

She turned to it. A Polaroid fell out—a photo of Liana at seven smiling about a missing tooth, her head on Leo's shoulder as the two of them watched from the rooftop garden of the hospital as the sun set.

"'Todays victory: she ate half a Popsicle,'" Liana read.

Her voice cracked. "'Tomorrow's goal: full Popsicle.'"

Leo laughed—a choked thing. "You hated Popsicles. Still do."

Amara's hand flew to her mouth. She hadn't known this journal was here—not the entries, not the photos jammed between the pages like time capsules.

Liana kept flipping.

A ticket stub from her first violin recital. A drawing of the family dog, who Leo swore was "just visiting" but stayed for six years. A note from Amara, written on a very black month: "She smiled today. Thanks for being her anchor."

"Page ninety-two," Leo whispered.

She turned.

A Polaroid of Amara and Liana by the lake, their backs to the camera, the water glistening like liquid gold.

"'Today's lesson: how to skip stones with a left-handed mom,'"

Liana read. She cried. "'Next time: bring sunscreen.'"

Amara's eyes blurred.

Leo's thumb brushed against her cheek, the touch tingly. "Every page a choice, kid. A 'next time.' And if you ever need us… just open it. We'll be there."

Liana hugged him, the journal wedged between them. "What if I forget?"

He kissed the top of her head. "Forgetting's not possible when you're made of us."

At the airport, as Liana waited in line at security, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: "The journal's not just for memories. It's a map. The key in Portland? It opens more than a box."

Her hand trembling, she opened the journal to the back page.

A drawn key in the margin, its toothed design the same as the one in the letter.

Below it, in Leo's scrawled handwriting:

"P.S. The box contains a letter from Grandma. She says hi."

"What letter?" Liana's voice shook as she texted her response, the boarding call for boarding her plane crackling overhead.

The response flashed at once:

"The one she wrote before she 'died.' The one that tells us everything. And the one that asks you to confirm before it vanishes."

Once more, her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: "P.S. Tell your parents the timeline's almost complete. The box is waiting."

Liana froze.

A clock somewhere reversed.

And nestled in her pocket, the diary pulsed like a heartbeat.