December 12, 1871.
Damien Abraams scrambled into the hallway of his newly bought manor, in hopes of escaping the despicable cold that stood a few feet away from him. The doors shut eerily with the wind.
Its voice echoed throughout the room ringing with a slight pitch. Hurriedly, Damien jerked his worn coat off of his shoulders, placing it on the nearby hook with vigor. The monstrous snow smuggled its way into the house, swirling on to the tiles below. Sighing, Mr. Abraams glanced around the candle lit corridor, his eyes meeting with the infamous Rose Davis, the families’ resident maid.
“Good evening Mr. Abraams.” She uttered in a hushed tone.
“Good evening Rose,” Damien replied, “is Mary still awake?”
“Don’t fret,” Rose smiled, “your wife is in the parlor working with the painter.” Pleased, Mr. Abraams thanked Rose and walked passionately through the halls, in direction of the parlor.
Following the sounds of an energetic voice, he swerved a corner only to lay his eyes on his beloved wife. Mary Abraams turned, her face lighting up at the sight of her husband.
“Damien! Come, come!” She ushered with her hands excitingly, “Mr. Wilson has just finished the painting.” Placing himself by his loved one side he nodded towards the painter with affirmation. Mr. Wilson hauled the tarp off in a dramatic motion, revealing a completed portrait of a young girl. Her eyes beamed and her posture perfect. The expression on her face lacked all but happiness. Across the girl’s body laid a delicate onyx dress lined perfectly with an ivory lace. A star-like pattern spread itself around the cloth, creating a miniature galaxy at her feet. The child’s crimson hair, half curled, and half pulled up with a ribbon. Its mirage of elegance lingered upon her. And above the girl’s heart sat a beautiful pendant, colors varied from gold and bronze to construct an illusion beneath her neck. The pendant blended against her sun-kissed skin, producing the image of a midnight goddess in front of them.
“Oh!,” Mrs. Abraams cried, “It’s absolutely beautiful” She reached up gently, her hands drifted atop the painting. Damien thanked Mr. Wilson, sending him on his way with a generously signed check.
Gazing back into the room he noticed his wife still stood in front of the portrait, hands fidgeting.
“Do you think she’ll like it?” Mary asked nervously.
“What?” Mr. Abraams inquired, surprised.
“It’s just that,” Mary paused, and then sighed. “Elizabeth has been so exhausted lately, what with all of the doctor’s appointments, I just want her to feel like herself again.” Mrs. Abraams concluded, her expression melancholic. Sighing, Damien hugged her.
“I know that you’re worried Mary, but everything is going to be alright,” Mr. Abraams explained, “you heard the doctor, only a few more check-ups and she’ll be back to normal.” She relaxed under his arms, feeling somewhat less upset.
“Besides,” Damien continued, “this is an important one, her 7th birthday!” Laughing, Mary glanced up at her husband.
“How is that special?” She questioned. Mr. Abraams stood, his face contorting into one of thought.
“Well, it’s special because it’s the only one,” he said triumphantly, pulling her back into a loving embrace.
“Besides, I have a feeling that this is one that’s going to be remembered forever.” Smiling, the couple stood in the fire lit room staring at each other. Thoughts filled with love, and the day that had yet to come. And it truly was something to be remembered, something for a very long time.