Chapter 1235

It was hardly a provocative proposal. To challenge the new leader on her inaugural day—especially over an act of clemency—would be monumentally foolish. This was a gesture of goodwill that demanded nothing of them, and no one present was inclined to refuse it.

A murmur of agreement swept through the hall like a gentle tide.

“We respect your decision.”

The matter closed without opposition.

By this point, dawn’s first pale light had begun seeping through the hall’s windows. Elliana had stayed awake for more than twenty-four hours, and exhaustion had begun to sink its claws deep into her body.

“If there are no further ions,” she announced, fighting to keep the weariness from bleeding into her tone, “we’ll adjourn for today. Our immediate priority is Maxine’s funeral. Everything else can wait.”

The meeting should have concluded there.

But just as relief began settling over the room, shoulders relaxing and people preparing to depart, Anita rose from her seat.

“I have one small request,” she said, her voice slicing cleanly through the emerging murmurs.

Elliana was about to leave, her daughter cradled in her arms, when Anita’s voice cut through the silence. She paused and turned.

“Yes?”

Anita’s gaze dropped to the baby.

“May I… may I hold her?” The request emerged hesitant, almost fragile.

Elliana had braced herself for something far weightier. A simple request to hold her daughter caught her off guard in the best way possible. She smiled and gently transferred the baby into Anita’s waiting arms.

“Oh,” Anita breathed, the word escaping like a prayer.

Despite having raised a child of her own, uncertainty flooded through Anita as she received the tiny infant. Her arms felt clumsy, unpracticed.

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Nearly eighty years had passed since she’d last held her own daughter, Maxine. The memories had faded into a distant haze, blurred by time. The practical skills of motherhood had grown rusty, but the instinct—that fierce, protective maternal love—remained as potent as ever.

The sight before them was profoundly moving: a one-hundred-and-two-year-old woman cradling a one-month-old baby, two generations separated by nearly a century meeting in a single moment.

Anita gazed down at Beatrice’s delicate face, and her features softened into something luminous. Faint images of infant Maxine drifted through her mind like wisps of smoke, and for one precious moment, she saw infant Maxine reflected in the baby she held. She cherished the feeling, reluctant to let go of either the baby or the memory.

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