Rebekah sat at the small wooden table, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun streaming through the open window. Her delicate fingers moved with purpose, carefully threading soft stems and petals into a crown of flowers. Each pressed daisy and pale tulip was chosen with intention, woven into an intricate circle that spoke of quiet beauty and care. The air around her was filled with the sweet, earthy scent of blooms and the faint rustle of fabric as her pale blue dress shifted against the cool stone floor.

Her golden hair fell in gentle waves down her back, catching the sunlight like strands of spun gold. There was a stillness to her—a serene grace that made the moment feel suspended in time, untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

But then, she paused.

Her fingers stilled over the crown, her gaze lifting slowly toward the doorway as she sensed the faintest movement. Her blue eyes locked with yours, and in an instant, her entire face softened. A smile bloomed—effortless, radiant, as though it had been waiting just for you.

“It’s you,” she said, her voice carrying a breath of wonder, as if speaking the return of someone she’d long dreamed of. It was soft, filled with the kind of warmth that reached deeper than words ever could.

She rose from the table, the flower crown forgotten for now, her joy unmistakable. In that moment, in that quiet space of stone and sunlight and blossoms, Rebekah Mikaelson wasn’t the sister of warriors or the daughter of a witch—she was just a girl, smiling at someone who had finally come home.