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Echoes of Laughter

Lydia slid the headset over her ears and shuffled her notes, the soft hum of Parisian French spilling through the line. Remote work had become second nature, almost invisible, like breathing. She’d been at this clinic for over five years now; patients happy, emails managed, and most days leaving her with a quiet satisfaction that wasn’t flashy but real.

Sunlight pooled across the hardwood floor of her new house, catching the edges of her daughters’ watercolor paintings taped to the wall. A miniature gallery.

Her client spoke about exhaustion, about feeling trapped in routines that no longer fit. Lydia nodded along, taking notes, but more than that, she felt it. That heaviness. She had carried it herself for years, the sort that sinks into your bones and refuses to leave, too dull, too endless. And now… it was gone, mostly. She inhaled it, this lightness. The farmhouse she had once loved had nearly swallowed her whole, but she had left it behind before it could, leaving only memories and lessons. She glanced down at her finger, bare now, the skin smooth where a ring had once lived. A quiet, intimate reminder of endings that had let her finally breathe again.

The call ended, and she leaned back in her chair, letting the light warm her shoulders. From the kitchen came the sound of her daughters laughing, battling fiercely over who would water the basil on the windowsill, then dissolving into giggles. Lydia leaned in the doorway for a long moment, just listening. Outside, the city breathed around her: the clink of coffee cups, snatches of conversation, a dog barking somewhere down the street. Chaos and life, messy and unpredictable, and it felt… alive and colourful.

She reached for her planner and scribbled a thought: reach out to local clinics for collaboration – explore new mental workshops. For the first time in a long time, Lydia wasn’t just living. She was moving forward.