Lena read the article twice, then once more just to feel it sink in. The headline was bold, printed in the digital design journal she'd subscribed to years ago when she first dreamed of building things that lasted:
"Rising Star Emma Wolfe Redefines Urban Space Through Memory and Meaning"
Below the headline was a photo of Emma, standing beside her design boards, shoulders square, eyes bright. She looked so much older than the girl who had first walked into the studio months ago—nervous, quiet, uncertain.
Now she stood rooted in her own story. And Lena, sitting in a quiet Parisian café, suddenly felt a rush of something warm and proud and achingly bittersweet.
She lifted her phone and took a picture of the article, typing only:
You made something beautiful. I always knew you would. I'm so proud of you. – L
Before she could hit send, her phone rang.
"Lena Hart?" a woman's voice asked, crisp with a European accent.
"Yes, speaking."
"This is Claudine Devereux from Atelier Lune. We met at the exhibition last week."
Lena straightened in her seat. Claudine was one of the most respected figures in European architectural circles—a legend whose designs were studied and imitated globally.
"I remember," Lena replied, carefully.
"We were impressed with your portfolio. Your essay on emotional spatial memory struck something here. We'd like to offer you a lead role in our next urban restoration project in Marseille. It would begin next month and run for the full year."
Lena's heart stilled.
A year.
A year away from Emma.
From Alexander.
From the studio she built.
The woman continued, unaware of the storm now churning beneath Lena's calm voice. "Of course, you'll have full creative freedom. We think your perspective could change the way we approach preservation altogether."
Lena smiled, stunned. "That's… an incredible offer. I'm honored."
"It's well-deserved. We'll email the details. We'd love to have you."
As the call ended, Lena sat frozen. The hum of the café returned, the clinking of glasses and murmured French conversations, the smell of espresso and pastries. The world was moving forward.
But she felt split in two.
She opened Emma's article again. Read her quotes. Her story.
Then opened another photo—one of Alexander and Emma, sent to her the week before. Emma laughing. Alexander trying not to smile but failing. Her home.
Her hands trembled slightly as she folded her notebook closed.
This was what she'd worked for, wasn't it?
Recognition. Influence. A voice in the rooms that once ignored her.
So why did the thought of staying feel like a goodbye to something more important?
That night, she walked to the Seine and sat by the water, sketchbook on her lap, pen unmoving. The wind tangled gently through her hair. For a long time, she didn't draw.
She just thought.
Then, in slow strokes, she wrote a single question on the blank page:
What do I want more—legacy or love?
And she didn't know the answer.
Not yet.
But she was getting closer.