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She crossed the room, and he looked up at her with the same unspoken understanding. He knew. Of course he knew.

“I will not ride today,” she said at once, her voice a little too firm. “Nor shall I leave the house.”

Fitzwilliam gave a soft nod, shifting James carefully in his arms. “We are safe,” he said. “You are safe.”

“I know I am being foolish. But even though all has turned out well, and in many ways better, I cannot rid myself of this feeling.”

“You are not foolish,” he replied, and reached for her hand.

The morning passed with quiet normalcy. She stayed near James, read a little, took tea, and reassured herself with each moment that all would be well.

But then, as the sun rose toward its peak and the hour crept near, a shadow of unease threaded through the golden light.

Elizabeth descended the staircase, intending to fetch some small item she could not later name.

The steps were as familiar to her as breath, worn smooth by years of passage.

She had traversed them countless times—in joy and in sorrow, in weariness and in delight. There was no cause for misstep.

And yet, her foot slipped.

A sudden lurch. A twist of the world. Her balance was lost. The rush of air, the sickening drop, the helpless tilt of gravity—

And behind her, a voice, strained and desperate:

“Elizabeth!”

Then, all was still.

Darkness came swiftly, soundless and complete, as though a curtain had been drawn upon the scene.

And she knew no more.

A dull, throbbing pain began to pulse at the base of her skull—slow at first, then rising with sharp insistence, as though some unseen force were tugging her back from the depths. Elizabeth stirred faintly, her eyelids fluttering, her gaze unfocused.

A soft voice broke the hush. "You had an accident, Lizzy. You struck your head, and we have been quite anxious. You have been unconscious since yesterday. We feared—” Jane paused, her composure wavering. Then, more steadily: “But you are awake now, and all shall be well. "

Elizabeth’s lips parted, dry and hesitant. "James," she whispered.

Jane’s voice softened. "He is with Fitzwilliam. Both are well. You are safe."

Her sister’s words seemed to anchor her, and Elizabeth's hand tightened in Jane’s. Her throat was raw, her voice no more than a murmur. "I had the strangest dream."

Jane squeezed her fingers gently. "Then it is over now."

But Elizabeth said nothing more. Her eyes, half-lidded, drifted to the shifting sunlight on the coverlet, watching it closely, as if its warmth and brightness might prove this was real—that she was here, that the fall had not taken her back again.

Still she did not move. The hush held, broken only by the quiet rustle of leaves beyond the window and the faint creak of the floorboards as someone approached. A shadow wavered across the threshold, then came a voice, low and aching:

“Elizabeth.”

She turned her head. Mr. Darcy stood in the doorway, pale, his features drawn with emotion he did not attempt to mask.

"My heart stopped," he said hoarsely, "when I saw you fall."

Elizabeth's lips curved, but it was not quite a smile. “So did mine… when I heard Jane’s voice as I woke.” Her voice trembled over the words, fragile as breath.

She looked at him then, her gaze searching his. “This is the first day,” she said softly, “the first day I do not remember.”

Darcy’s voice was steady. “Then let us fill it with all that comes next.”

Outside, the wind stirred softly through the budding trees.

Time passed and moved forward; the days were lived, not remembered, and yet a moment came that struck her husband like a dream long forgotten.

That afternoon, Darcy stood near the garden path, watching as James ran ahead of him—dark-haired, fleet-footed, and laughing, his voice bright with joy.

“Papa!” James called back, waving wildly before bounding toward the fountain’s edge.

Just beyond him, Elizabeth walked slowly through the soft grass, her hair caught by the wind, her arms full with a very small child.

The baby girl’s curls were just beginning to form, and her eyes—wide, solemn, and wise—held a curious clarity.

She looked at Darcy as if she knew him. As if she always had .

Darcy’s breath caught. He met Elizabeth’s gaze across the garden, and for a moment, he stood completely still. The look on his face was wonder—pure and quiet—and Elizabeth recognized it at once. She had seen it before, many times, not so long ago.

She smiled. “Is this,” she asked gently, “how you remembered it?”

He crossed the distance between them in three strides. One hand rested lightly over their daughter’s soft curls; the other reached for Elizabeth’s, as if the gesture had always been his.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Only better.”

Elizabeth leaned her head against his shoulder, and he drew her close. Their daughter drowsed contentedly between them. The breeze carried the scent of earth and new blossom, and James’s laughter echoed across the lawn.

The moment held no shadow, only sunlight—soft and certain as breath.

What had once been dreamed, they now lived, not in fragments or fears, but in the quiet unfolding of days rightly theirs.

It was not the past remembered, nor the future imagined, but something sweeter still: the present, wholly claimed.

The End