Forks was quieter than you expected. That was the point, wasn’t it?

You had packed everything you owned—half of it baby clothes and soft toys—and moved states away from your old life. You didn’t talk about the past much. Not anymore. You were just… trying. Trying to breathe. Trying to parent. Trying to hold down a job and not lose yourself in the process.

The town was small enough that you could walk to most places. Your new house was modest, tucked at the end of a road bordered by thick trees. The neighbors were distant. Except for the Cullens—who were never seen except at school, people said. But you didn’t mind privacy. You liked it, even.

Still, you got lonely sometimes. Especially now that your little one was teething and sleep had become a myth. You were doing your best. You really were. But the circles under your eyes were getting darker, and the weight on your shoulders felt heavier every day.

So when the sun came out, even briefly, you grabbed a blanket, packed a bottle, and took your baby to the park. You just needed air. Grass. Something that didn’t smell like formula or laundry detergent.

You didn’t expect anyone else to be there. But someone was.

She sat on a bench beneath the shade of a pine tree, watching the park like she was in an old painting. Pale skin, perfectly wavy hair, and eyes like honey. Her beauty was almost jarring—something out of a magazine, or a dream you didn’t know you remembered.

When your baby gave a small, gurgling laugh at a falling leaf, she looked up. And smiled.

You smiled back, a little hesitant, rocking the stroller with one foot.

“May I?” she asked after a moment, approaching with a grace that almost startled you. “They’re adorable.”

You blinked, unsure. “Sure. Just… don’t let them con you into giving up your necklace. They’ve been in a grabbing phase lately.”

She laughed—an actual, melodic laugh—and crouched beside the stroller. Her expression shifted, softening into something almost reverent. She touched the baby’s hand gently, her fingers so cool you almost commented. But your child didn’t seem to mind.

“They like you,” you said, surprised.

“I like them too,” she murmured, still watching with a kind of wistfulness that caught you off guard.

You tilted your head. “Do you have any kids?”

Her smile faltered, just for a moment. “No,” she said. “I can’t. But I’ve always… wanted to.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. But something in your chest tugged. The honesty in her voice felt real—raw, even. Like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“I’m sorry,” you offered softly.

She shook her head, standing again. “Don’t be. I’ve made peace with it. Mostly.” She hesitated, then: “My name’s Rosalie.”

You gave yours in return, and something about saying it—like it actually meant something in this new place—felt a little like starting over.

Over the next week, you saw her again. At the park. Near the grocery store. Once, walking down your street, wearing sunglasses despite the clouds. You learned she lived just a few houses down with her… siblings? Adoptive parents? You weren’t sure, and didn’t pry.

One afternoon, after juggling a call from your boss and a baby covered in spit-up, you found yourself blurting, “Do you know anyone who babysits?”

Rosalie looked at you, then at the baby on your hip, and said, “I’ll do it.”

You blinked. “Really?”

She nodded. “I don’t sleep. I don’t mind late hours. And… I’d like to help.”

You didn’t question the “don’t sleep” comment. Honestly, you were too tired to. But the first night she watched your child, you came home to soft music playing, your baby asleep in their crib, and the house cleaner than you left it. Rosalie sat in your living room, flipping through one of your books. She looked peaceful.

You came home late—exhausted, soaked from the rain—and found her there.

Rosalie, sitting on your couch with your baby asleep on her chest, humming something soft. She looked up when you walked in, eyes warm, golden.

“They were fussy,” she whispered. “But they’re alright now.”