Music has always been part of my storytelling. Long before a scene fully forms in my mind, there is often music playing somewhere in the background — sometimes softly, sometimes overwhelmingly — shaping emotion, atmosphere, and memory long before the words arrive. For me, writing and music are deeply connected. Both tell stories without needing to explain everything directly. A single melody can create longing. A single note can awaken memory. A single song can transport us back to another moment in our lives almost instantly. That emotional power fascinates me endlessly as a writer.

Music Creates Emotion Before Words Do

One of the most remarkable things about music is how quickly it reaches the heart. Before we fully understand a story, we feel it. Music works the same way. A haunting violin can create sorrow before a single word is spoken. A sweeping orchestral piece can make a moment feel timeless. A soft piano melody can carry nostalgia, romance, loneliness, or hope all at once. When I write emotional scenes, I often imagine them almost like film sequences — with music shaping the emotional rhythm beneath the dialogue and imagery.

Sometimes I build entire chapters around a feeling created by a melody.

Different Stories Have Different Soundtracks

Every book seems to carry its own musical atmosphere. Some stories demand silence and reflection. Others feel cinematic and grand. For my time travel stories, I am often drawn to music that feels nostalgic, mysterious, and emotional — pieces that seem suspended between centuries. For more emotional or introspective scenes, piano music becomes especially important. Piano has a unique ability to feel intimate and haunting at the same time, almost like memory itself. And sometimes, music becomes more than inspiration.

Sometimes, it becomes part of the story.

Have you ever heard a song and instantly remembered a person, a place, or a moment you thought you had forgotten? Music has an extraordinary relationship with memory. A melody can unlock emotions buried for years. It can bring back entire moments with startling clarity — the light in a room, the feeling in your chest, even the version of yourself you once were.

That connection between music and memory has always fascinated me creatively. Perhaps that is why music appears so often in my writing: because it feels deeply tied to emotion, longing, nostalgia, and the invisible threads connecting people across time.

Music as Memory

Music helps create those emotional landscapes. It slows scenes down. It deepens emotion. It gives silence meaning.

I often think of stories visually and musically at the same time. Sometimes I imagine scenes almost like fragments from an old film: rain against windows, empty concert halls, distant piano melodies, city lights at midnight, forgotten letters tucked between pages of old books.

And in many ways, it becomes another character within the story itself.

The Heart of Rhapsody in Dreams

Music became especially important while writing Rhapsody in Dreams — a story shaped by dreams, memory, longing, and the haunting feeling that certain souls may find each other again and again across lifetimes.

The novel’s emotional atmosphere was deeply influenced by piano music and cinematic compositions.

I wanted the story to feel almost dreamlike — delicate, emotional, nostalgic, and slightly unreal, like a melody remembered from another life. Because sometimes music expresses what words never fully can.

Stories and music both exist to make us feel something. They remind us of who we were. They help us process what we have lost. They allow us to dream beyond ordinary life.

And perhaps that is why certain books stay with us forever — because they carry emotional rhythms we recognize somewhere deep inside ourselves. Long after the final page is turned, the feeling remains.

Like a song we cannot forget.

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Excerpt from Rhapsody in Dreams

Her seat was empty.

Al took another bow, smiling at the audience. A standing ovation, which he never took for granted and was always touched and humbled by, held him on the stage of the Jacoby Hall for the last fifteen minutes straight. They didn’t want to let him go. Shouts of bravos, loud cheering, and even whistling along with a thundering applause kept him in a spellbound state of mind only a musician could understand. His heart rejoiced. His art, his music, was well received and approved of, accepted. The Oktoberfest concert was a smashing success. Al was happy, but tired to the marrow. And strangely bereft. Her seat was empty.

Why did she leave? When did she leave? She was there through the first part of the evening, for the Wagner. During the intermission, he tried to switch gears and prepare himself mentally and emotionally for the Beethoven part of the concert, all the while changing his soaked-through clothes. He was too wound up and busy to think about anything but the music.

When he came on stage for the second part, she was there, sitting with her grandmothers and her friend, looking like a human torch in her dazzling golden dress. Her eyes, those impossibly huge mermaid’s eyes, looked straight at him—straight through him—like she could see inside of his head and his heart. How could he ever forget those eyes?!

Al’s breath hitched, and his heart went into overdrive. How could he ever think that he could forget about her?! How he could have survived these eighteen years without her was the question he couldn’t answer, even if he had the time and inclination to ask himself and to ponder on, which he did not. He was on stage, about to perform one of the most demanding pieces in music history: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with the famous Ode to Joy.

But he could feel her eyes on him all through the sixty-five minutes of the performance, from the very first note to the very last. He was never distracted when he performed; he never thought of the audience behind him when he conducted or in front of him when he played as a soloist. During the performance, he’d forget where he played—what city, town, country—never think of what hall, theater, or stage he was currently on. He simply forgot anything and everything as soon as the music started. Such was his focus on music and his dedication to the craft.

Today was the very first time when he had felt his focus wavering—oh, so slightly—by the presence of one special member of the audience. Her. And for the first time in his career, it mattered what that one member of the audience thought of his performance, whether she liked it or not.

And then, after the Ninth, when the excitement of the audience and the thundering applause made him return onstage for the fourth time, Al decided to play a very special piece just for her. He didn’t know that he would. It wasn’t planned.

But when it became obvious that an encore was inevitable, Al had requested a piano to be wheeled in the center, and he sat at the bench. The audience exploded with an enthusiastic applause but hushed as soon as Al lifted both hands, palms up.

The silence was absolute.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. And then began to play.

It was the piece inspired and dedicated to the girl who looked at him with her huge blue eyes clouded with pain and shock. It was a melody born from the heart and nurtured by the promise he had made—to show her the wings. He had composed it more than two decades ago and had played it in public only once. For her. Eighteen years ago. Today was the second time. Unusually nervous, Al placed his fingers over the piano keys. And showed her the wings. Again.

When the piece was over, Al sat at the bench for a long time, his eyes closed, his hands poised over the piano, suspended in between the music and the silence.

The audience, spellbound by the magic, was mute. And then all the people in Jacoby Hall surged to their feet. It was a standing ovation. It was an absolute success. Al, finally coming back to reality, slowly rose from the bench and, turning to the audience at last, looked directly at the place where his special guests were seated. But her seat was empty…

Where do stories come from?

It is a question writers are asked constantly, yet the answer is rarely simple. Sometimes stories begin with a single sentence. Sometimes with a character who refuses to leave your mind. And sometimes, they begin in dreams.

There is something mysterious about the connection between dreams and creativity. Long before a story appears on the page, it often exists somewhere deeper — in fragments of memory, emotion, longing, fear, and imagination. Writers do not always invent stories consciously. Sometimes, stories find us.

The Strange Language of Dreams

Dreams speak in symbols. A forgotten house. A melody drifting through empty streets.
A face that feels familiar even though we have never seen it before. Dreams rarely explain themselves directly, yet they leave emotional traces behind. Hours after waking, we may forget the details but still remember how the dream felt. That emotional imprint is incredibly powerful for storytelling.

Many writers, artists, composers, and filmmakers have drawn inspiration from dreams because dreams bypass logic and speak directly to emotion. They create images and moments we could never fully invent while awake. And often, those moments become the seeds of stories.

Memory and the Stories We Carry

Creativity is also deeply connected to memory. Not only the memories we clearly remember — but the ones hidden beneath the surface. A childhood summer; the scent of old books; a song heard years ago; a place we have not visited in decades.

Sometimes we do not realize how much these memories shape us until they appear unexpectedly in our writing. Stories are often emotional echoes of experiences we have lived, lost, imagined, or wished for.

Even fiction contains pieces of truth. Perhaps that is why readers connect so deeply with certain stories: because they recognize emotions that feel real.

Why Creativity Often Feels Mysterious

Many writers describe creativity almost like a conversation. Characters begin making choices on their own. Scenes appear unexpectedly. Entire chapters arrive late at night as though they were waiting patiently somewhere beyond conscious thought. It can feel less like invention and more like discovery.

Some psychologists believe creativity emerges from the subconscious mind assembling emotions, memories, fears, and ideas into new forms. Others see creativity as something more spiritual — a bridge between imagination and something unknown.

Whatever the explanation may be, creativity rarely arrives in a perfectly organized way. It arrives in flashes.

A dream. A memory. A feeling. A question that refuses to disappear. And slowly, a story begins to form.

Stories That Feel Like Memories

Some stories feel strangely familiar even when they are fictional. Readers sometimes describe this sensation as nostalgia for a place they have never been or a life they never lived. That feeling fascinates me deeply as a writer. It became one of the central inspirations behind Rhapsody in Dreams — a story woven through dreams, music, memory, and the haunting feeling that certain connections transcend time itself.

I have always been fascinated by the idea that dreams may carry pieces of forgotten emotions, hidden truths, or echoes of lives we can barely remember. Whether those experiences are psychological, spiritual, or simply imaginative, they hold extraordinary storytelling power. Because dreams allow us to explore emotions that reality often hides.

Why We Need Stories

Stories help us make sense of ourselves. They allow us to revisit emotions safely, explore impossible questions, and connect with experiences beyond our own lives. And perhaps that is why dreams and storytelling remain so closely linked. Both emerge from places we do not fully understand. Both reveal hidden truths, and blur the line between reality and imagination. And both remind us that the human heart is far more mysterious than logic alone can explain. Maybe stories are born the moment memory, emotion, and imagination meet. And maybe dreams are simply the doorway.

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Excerpt from Rhapsody in Dreams

Prelude

1992

Kira Wagner died when she was six.

The house where she lived with her parents and her baby brother collapsed, burying them alive. They were discovered the next day. By then, Kira’s parents and the baby were long gone; she was breathing, but just barely. In the ambulance, during the mad dash to the hospital, her heart suddenly stopped. In medical terminology—she flat-lined. For the next six impossibly long minutes, her heart stood still, refusing to pump blood and depriving her brain of oxygen. Two paramedics, who were grim, dirty, and exhausted, immediately started CPR and delivered her to the Emergency Center in record time, all things considered. Then the doctors took over the fight for saving the little girl, one of the thousands of victims of the deadliest hurricane in the history of Florida that had such a ridiculously poetic name—Andrew.

Kira’s heart stubbornly refused to re-start even after a high-voltage shock was applied to her chest for the third time. It made her little body arch and bounce, and it burned her skin, leaving ugly marks. And then, when the doctor was about to pronounce her dead and turned his head to read the time of death off the ER wall clock, her heart suddenly began to beat again, and Kira took a shallow breath.

Chapter One

Adelina Wagner was sitting in a hospital waiting room, stiff and chilled to the bone. Her mind still refused to get in sync with reality, reeling from the shock. Her son was dead, and so were her daughter-in-law and her grandson, baby JJ. The horror of this news was so enormously overwhelming that she couldn’t accept it yet. Her brain knew, but it refused to deal with it. The five-hour drive to the hospital went by in a blur. She didn’t even remember how she got there. After the morning call from Miami, she ran to the door of her shop, jumped into the car, and peeled out of the parking lot, heading south. She didn’t remember if she closed the shop.

Oh, Emma was there too, Adelina realized, still dazed. Emma was already chatting with the first customers when the phone near the cash register started to ring, so Adelina took the call that changed her life forever. Before and after. Her whole family, she’d been told, had perished in a hurricane.

“All of them?!”

“Please accept our deepest condolences, Mrs. Wagner…Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am, my mistake—your granddaughter is listed as critical.”

Her little Kira was found alive but in bad shape, she was told. Multiple bruises and lacerations, moderate to severe concussion, one dislocated shoulder; she had also suffered a cardiac arrest.

Until she arrived at the Humana Hospital in Pembroke Pines, where all the victims of Hurricane Andrew were taken, Adelina didn’t know if Kira had survived. Even now, sitting in a crowded waiting room, surrounded by so much pain and grief she could almost touch it, she didn’t know if her little girl was alive. Finally, the doctor stepped into the room and called her name. Adelina sprung to her feet. She beseechingly searched the harried face of the doctor, who seemed to be too young to shave until you looked into his ancient eyes.

“Kira…?”

“Alive. We managed to bring her back.”

Adelina sagged against the wall, clamping her mouth with her hand to muffle the cry.

Thank God, oh, thank you, God! she screamed on the inside. Her little girl was alive. Kira has survived.

“She was asking about Albert. Her father?”

Adelina looked at the doctor, too shell-shocked to process his question. After a moment, she shook her head. “No. No, her father’s name is…was Richard.” Her voice shook. Was. Her son, her dear boy was dead!

The pain was enormous, debilitating and sharp; it was tearing her to a million tiny pieces, threatening to swallow her alive.

Can’t give up, Adelina kept repeating like a mantra. Need to be strong. For Kira, for my baby girl. Must be strong.

Kira was alive, thank God, and she was her responsibility now.

“Do you know who this Albert person might be?” the doctor asked again.

“No…I don’t know. Maybe her friend? I don’t know, doctor. Why?”

“Just curious. It was the first thing she said.” The first and only, the doctor thought.

“Has she asked about her parents? Her brother?”

“No. Just about this Albert.”

My God, Adelina realized that she would be the one to tell the little girl about her family. She briefly closed her eyes, then shook her head. It wasn’t the time to feel sorry for herself. There would be time for that later. For now, she must think only about Kira.

Adelina took a deep breath. “What exactly did she say?”

“She said, ‘Where is Albert?’”

“‘Where is Albert?’ What…what could that mean?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” the doctor answered, a bit brusquely. “What matters is that your granddaughter is alive and breathing on her own again.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Adelina dismissed the subject of this Albert, asking the most important question. “What is her prognosis, doctor? Please be honest with me. Did she suffer any serious trauma?”

“Luckily, no, which is a miracle in itself. Her brain shows no after-effects of oxygen deprivation; her heart is beating strongly. She is one extremely lucky girl.”

“Miracle, indeed,” Adelina whispered.

There is something timeless about time travel stories.

Long before special effects, blockbuster films, or science fiction became mainstream, people dreamed about escaping the limits of time. We imagine what it would feel like to step into another century, meet people long gone, rewrite mistakes, or discover that love can survive across generations.

And somehow, no matter how much the world changes, readers continue to return to these stories again and again.

Why? Because time travel is never really about time.

It is about longing.

The Desire for a Second Chance

At the heart of nearly every great time travel story lies a deeply human question:

What if?

What if we could go back and say the words we never said?
What if we could undo one terrible mistake?
What if we met someone who changed our lives — but lived in another era?

Time travel stories allow us to explore regret, destiny, hope, and possibility in ways ordinary stories cannot.

They give readers permission to dream beyond the rules of reality.

Romance Across Centuries

Perhaps this is why time travel romance remains so powerful.

There is something irresistible about two souls trying to find each other despite impossible odds — separated not by distance, but by decades or centuries.

A love story becomes even more emotional when time itself becomes the enemy.

That idea inspired much of my own Upon A Time series, beginning with ‘Til Time Do Us Part. I wanted to explore not only the mystery of time travel, but also the emotional cost of loving someone who belongs to another world.

What happens when the past begins to feel more like home than the present?

And what happens when returning home means leaving your heart behind?

History Feels Alive

One of the most beautiful things about time travel fiction is the way it brings history to life.

Readers are not simply learning about another era — they are living inside it.

They hear the music.
They walk the streets.
They wear the clothes.
They experience the fears, hopes, and limitations of another century.

History becomes personal.

Instead of reading dates in a textbook, we suddenly care deeply about the people who lived through those moments.

That emotional immersion is one reason historical time travel stories continue to resonate so strongly with readers today.

Escape in a Fast-Moving World

Modern life moves quickly. Too quickly. We scroll endlessly, rush constantly, and rarely pause long enough to dream.

Time travel stories offer something rare: escape. Not shallow escape — but emotional escape.

They allow readers to disappear into misty old mansions, forgotten letters, hidden clocks, mysterious family secrets, and worlds where fate still feels magical.

In many ways, time travel fiction reminds us to slow down and feel wonder again.

The Mystery We Still Cannot Explain

Science has evolved tremendously, yet time itself remains mysterious.

Even today, physicists debate theories about parallel timelines, wormholes, and the nature of reality itself.

That uncertainty keeps time travel stories alive.

Because somewhere deep inside us, we still wonder:

What if it were possible?

And perhaps that question will never disappear.

Why We Keep Returning

Every generation rediscovers time travel stories in its own way. Some readers love the adventure.
Others love the romance. Others are drawn to the mystery, nostalgia, or philosophical questions. But underneath it all lies the same universal desire: To believe that time is not always final.

That love might survive. That choices matter. That the past still whispers to us.
And that somewhere, somehow, another door might still be waiting to open.

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If you enjoy emotional time travel stories filled with mystery, romance, and history, you may enjoy my Upon A Time series, including ‘Til Time Do Us Part, Time & Again, No Other Time, and A Twirl in Time.

After all… perhaps time is not as fixed as we think.

Supporting Independent Authors, Dreamers, and Stories That Deserve to Be Heard

In today’s fast-moving digital world, readers have more choices than ever before. Giant platforms like Amazon dominate the publishing industry with massive reach, lightning-fast shipping, and endless catalogs. For many readers—and authors—Amazon has become an essential part of the book world.

The Difference Between a Marketplace and a Community

Large platforms are incredible for visibility. They help readers discover books from all over the world with just one click. For independent authors like me, Amazon opened doors that once seemed impossible.

But small shops offer something different.

When you buy from a small bookstore on Etsy, you are often supporting:

• A single author
• A family-run creative business
• Handmade designs and carefully curated collections
• Original stories that may never receive mainstream marketing
• Passion projects created with heart instead of algorithms

Every sale means something deeply personal to a small creator. It’s not just another transaction—it’s encouragement. It’s validation. It’s fuel to keep writing, designing, and dreaming.

Why Readers Are Returning to Independent Shops

More readers today are looking for authenticity.

They want:

• Unique journals and special editions
• Direct connection with authors
• Personalized experiences
• Creative packaging and thoughtful presentation
• Stories outside of mainstream trends

Independent shops create an atmosphere that feels human again.

There is something magical about discovering a book that feels like a hidden treasure instead of a mass-produced recommendation generated by data.

The Reality for Independent Authors

Most indie authors wear every hat imaginable:

• Writer
• Editor
• Designer
• Marketer
• Social media creator
• Shop owner
• Customer service representative

Behind every small shop is usually one person working late nights, learning new skills, creating content, and hoping readers will connect with their stories.

That’s why every review, favorite, share, and purchase matters so much.

This isn’t a battle between Amazon and small bookstores.

Small shops survive because readers choose to support creativity over convenience.

It’s Not About Choosing One Over the Other

Both serve important purposes.

Amazon gives independent creators reach and accessibility. Small bookstores give readers intimacy and discovery.

The beautiful thing is that readers can support both.

You can discover a new author on Amazon and later support their independent shop. You can buy bestsellers from major retailers while still choosing to support handcrafted creative businesses on Etsy.

There is room for both giants and dreamers in the literary world.

Discover More Stories

If you enjoy emotional time-travel romance, family sagas, mysteries of the past, and stories filled with fate, love, and second chances, you can explore more of my books here:

• SoulScriptBooksStore on Etsy
• Stella May Author Website

Because every small bookstore begins with a single story—and a reader willing to believe in it.

A Personal Note

As an independent author, opening my Etsy bookstore has been both exciting and terrifying. Every book, journal, and collection in my shop represents countless hours of writing, designing, editing, and believing in stories that live deeply in my heart.

Whether readers find my books through Amazon, Etsy, social media, or word of mouth, I’m grateful for every person who takes the time to step into the worlds I create.

And speaking of worlds…

Here is a small excerpt from my ‘Til Time Do Us Part Book1 of my time-travel romance series, Upon A Time.

PROLOGUE

Eight Years Earlier

“Nika, wake up.” Alex maneuvered the car to a full stop.

When she refused to budge, he administered an elbow jab to the ribs, a sure way to get his sleeping cousin out of her slumber.

“What? Why?”

Nika sprang up, like a cork out of a champagne bottle, and banged her forehead against the dashboard in the process.

“Ouch!” she yelped, massaging her abused head.

He gave her his lopsided, pirate grin.

“Poor baby. Have a boo-boo?”

“Shut up, Cuz. Where are we? And why did we stop?”

“Well, my girl, according to the sign, we are in the fine old town of Fernandina Beach, Florida. As to why we stopped,” he grimaced “The car has finally given up. She couldn’t take it any longer, poor thing. So, here we are.”

“I told you we should take my car instead of this heap. But did you listen?”

“What, take a red, brand-spanking new Ferrari to make our secret escape from Manhattan? Yeah, that would’ve been a very covert operation indeed!”

Nika shrugged off his remark, especially since he was absolutely right. In her car they would have been located and stopped in a matter of minutes.

“And why are we in Florida? I thought we were stopping in Georgia for a few days.”

“Well, we reached the Peach State last night, while you were in a deep slumber, but I didn’t feel like stopping. Why? Did you want to see something in particular there?”

“No, but we are supposed to talk and agree on things, both of us.” She glared at him.

“What if I didn’t want to go to Fernandina Beach?”

“Well, if you don’t, we’ll go somewhere else. As soon as we figure out how.”

He patted the dashboard of the now dead car with his hand, and drew a deep breath. Then grinned at Nika.  “Yeah, that would’ve been a very covert operation indeed!”

“You wanted an adventure, my girl. I’d say, your wish came true!

“Yeah, I’d say,” she grumbled, pretending to be mad. Secretly she was as pleased as her cousin. But since the second-hand heap, camouflaged as a car, was his idea, and especially since he passed through Georgia without consulting her first, she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook easily. She didn’t want to stop anywhere in particular, or see anything in that state, truth be told. Principle. It was just a matter of principle to her. If they were true partners, they should make all the decisions together. Period. On that Nika was firm. When she first presented him with her idea of the Grand Adventure, or more accurately running away from their fathers, she made sure they both agreed on the most important basic terms. They were to share everything, tell the truth no matter what, and—the cardinal rule—make all the decisions mutually. He took an oath and violated it in a matter of days simply because he didn’t care to stop in Georgia. The moron! Her annoyance evaporated as soon as she turned to her favorite cousin.

Just look at the idiot!

He was grinning ear-to-ear, happy as you please, sitting in a dead car smack in the middle of a street, in some tiny picturesque town at five in the morning. Was it any wonder she simply adored him?

“What do you say, my girl?”

She may never forgive him for being a jerk, but Nika was crazy about her cousin since childhood. She couldn’t stop her grin even if she wanted to.

“I say, our Grand Adventure came to a screeching halt. What do you propose we do, partner?”

“Let’s see, partner.” He fluffed her hair in a familiar manner that had driven her nuts since they both were in diapers. Her crazy mane of curls probably resembled a crow’s nest by now. “How much money do we have?”

Nika, who was their financial manager, replied without a pause, “Ninety-seven dollars, thirty-three cents in cash.”

“Credit cards?”

“Two thousand, give or take. If the fathers didn’t block them yet.”

Their fathers, identical twins Joseph and Jacob, were the heads of the international Manhattan investment bank and financial services Morris & Morris and a formidable force to be reckoned with. By running away from home they had violated the Two Golden Rules of the Morris’s.

Rule number One– the twins (as they were called by friend and foe alike) are always right.

Rule number Two – If you think otherwise, look at rule one or get out of the way.

And that is precisely what they did. They both disagreed with the rule number One, especially where their life choices were concerned.

“Let’s hope for the best.” Alex, always the optimist, glanced at Nika. “Or we could call one or the other?”

“What, call Dad? For money? Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, you could call my dad, and I could call yours.”

“And tell them what? That they were right, and we can’t survive without them constantly supervising our every step, or dictating our every move? And prove them right? Out of the question. I’d rather starve.” Nika banged her small fist against the dashboard with a surprising force and winced. “Never.”

“Yeah, bad idea.” He nodded. “Well, there is always Verochka. She supported our cause and even bought this heap, as you call it, for us.”

“Grandmother might back our decision to stand on our own and rule our lives, but even she won’t go so far as to lend us money behind the twins’ backs. Her conscience would force her to tell them our location.” Nika gritted her teeth in frustration.  “You know the cops would be after us, trying to capture the fugitive children.”

“They won’t go that far! Would they?” He turned his troubled eyes to her. Looking into those eyes was like looking in the mirror. Only two out of the six children the twins produced, had inherited the unusual violet-blue shade of eyes from their Grandmother Vera, or Verochka as everyone called her.

“You never know, and I don’t want to find out for sure.” Nika dragged both hands through the mess of her tangled curls. She shook her mane in a defiant manner and then smiled recklessly at her partner in crime.

“Hell, our luck has held up so far, Cuz. I say, let’s stick to the plan and make it a true Grand Adventure. Let’s stop here, in this town, and start building our lives from scratch.”

“Here? In Fernandina Beach?”

He focused on her, then glanced out of the window at the sleepy town, quaint and picturesque, and somehow unreal, shimmering mysteriously in the first rays of the rising sun.

“Why not? The weather is always warm in the Sunshine State, or so they claim. A big plus. The ocean is right here, so the seafood and shrimp galore, a huge plus.” Nika, warming to the subject, leaned forward. “The history is all around us, I can feel it! The houses, the streets, the atmosphere—it’s where we are supposed to be, Cuz. I can see us here in three, five, even eight years from now. We’ll start a business. Yes! A company we always wanted to start, just the two of us.”

“And what would that company of ours do?” Alex asked with a chuckle. His own misgivings on the subject evaporated shortly after his younger cousin by a mere month spoke. He found it absolutely impossible to stay in a bleak mood longer than a few minutes in her presence. Her exuberance and enthusiasm were simply overwhelming, her thirst for adventure and her stubborn belief that life is beautiful were highly contagious. At least, it was always to him. Even as a boy, he shadowed his miniature tornado of a cousin, constantly in one trouble after another, but unable to resist the temptation. The most miserable period of his life was his four years of Harvard. Nika’s grades were not good enough so she attended a local college. Now, they were both graduates with freshly minted diplomas and two sets of irate parents they managed to piss off by running away on the Grand Adventure. They escaped right after their graduation party the twins had thrown for them two weeks ago. It was a desperate and daring move and yes, a rebellion against the dictatorial regime of the Morris’s households, where Jacob and Joseph reigned supreme.

Anyone unfamiliar with their fathers or their methods, might have considered their escape as an extreme measure. But to the members of the family, including the six children, who lived by the Two Golden Rules, and the staff of the Morris & Morris bank, such wasn’t the case.

Even the twins’ mother Verochka, their favorite grandmother, was in a state of a constant awe, not to mention bafflement, of her own offspring. It didn’t stop her, however, from aiding and abetting Nika and Alex. Verochka had a strong independent streak along with a firm and unshakable belief in freedom. Her motto – every person has the right to shape his or her own destiny, and be happy. And, of course, because she absolutely adored the pair of them.

“We can do anything we want. We can try many different things before we find our own milieu. Well, what do you say, partner?”

“Heck, why not? Let’s do it, partner.”

Nika laughed and, launching at him, threw her arms around his neck.

“I’m so happy! I’m happy you decided to drive past Georgia, I’m happy our car has died on us, I’m happy to be here. I just know it’s where we are supposed to be. We’ll make it happen, Cuz. Just wait and see. We’ll make it fine on our own. And we will show the whole wide world what Morris & Morris Jrs. are capable of.”

“Please,” he grimaced. “Not Morris & Morris. Whatever we call our future company, I want your solemn promise we absolutely will not mix the twins’ name into it.”

“You got it, darling.” Nika placed her palm onto his face and gave it a light pat. She knew the ordeal was much harder on him than he let on. He was her almost-genius, soft-hearted, and serious cousin. A man who found it impossible to hurt a fly. Let alone defy their overbearing fathers. He might have entered Harvard Law School and finish it with flying colors, then join the family firm and be miserable for the rest of his life if not for her and her ingenious escape plan. Well, what was a younger cousin for. Nika was delighted for them both and the world in general. 

“Let’s name it Before and After, then. Before we came here—and after we settle here. Get it? And we make sure that whatever it is we’ll do, it will make a lasting impact on this town and its people. How about that, Cuz?”

“Before and After. Holy cow, I like it!”

He reminded her of a little boy, happy, kind and joyous, who followed her every step and got her out of mischief more than she cared to admit. Or, the times he couldn’t talk her out of it and joined her. Like right now. Was it any wonder she loved him more than her own brothers? Actually, more than anyone in the world. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.

“Fate, you fickle bitch, here we are, and here we stay, for better or worse,” he shouted through the open window of the derelict broken-down car, delirious and carefree.

“Here we are,” Nika joined in, poking her head out through the passenger window, her own voice clear and sonorous like a silver bell, “and here we stay! And let’s see how that fickle bitch Fate will dare to defy us now!”

Mother’s Day is often filled with flowers, cards, and cherished memories. But beyond the celebrations lies something even deeper — the quiet strength of women who hold families together across generations. Mothers, grandmothers, daughters, and the invisible threads of love they leave behind.

As a writer, I’ve always been fascinated by the way memories travel through time. Sometimes they come to us in stories. Sometimes in old photographs. And sometimes, in the people who unknowingly carry the echoes of those who came before them.

My Upon A Time series explores love, destiny, and the mysterious pull of the past. But one of the most emotional stories in the series is A Twirl in Time — a novel centered around Verochka, the grandmother whose grace, sacrifices, and hidden strength helped shape generations of the Coleman family.

This Mother’s Day, I wanted to share a small glimpse into that world.

Verochka is more than a grandmother in the story. She represents the women whose love survives wars, heartbreak, distance, and time itself. The women who endure quietly. The women whose stories are often left untold.

There is something timeless about motherhood — the way wisdom passes from one generation to another, even when words are never spoken aloud. In A Twirl in Time, that idea became one of the emotional hearts of the novel.

Below is an excerpt from Chapter One of A Twirl in Time.

I hope it transports you into another era and reminds you of the women who shaped your own story.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mother, grandmother, daughter, and dreamer.

With love,
Stella May / Marina Sardarova

“A Twirl In Time” Book 4 in the Upon A Time series

CHAPTER ONE

Verochka leaned against the wing backed chair, gazing out the oversized bay window. A relieved smile tugged at her lips as gentle, diamond studded blue waves washed onto the sand beach. She turned at the sound of shoes shuffling along the hardwood floor.

Abby, Verochka’s granddaughter by marriage, waddled into the great room, rubbing her enormous belly with both hands. Carefully, but ungracefully, she plopped her pregnant body onto the sofa with a contended sigh. Experience proved Abby sat for just a few moments, before struggling to her feet, and started pacing again. The poor thing was definitely unsettled and uncomfortable. First pregnancies can be quite difficult for young women.

A little chitchat was in order. Just to take Abby’s mind off her condition for a few moments.

 “It’s hard to believe that only two days ago the Atlantic Ocean churned as if possessed by demons from hell and spewed its mighty wrath onto our tiny Amelia Island.” Verochka glanced at Abby who seemed lost in her own thoughts and still rubbing her belly.

Okay, strike one.

“They named that hurricane Ian, can you believe it?” Verochka forced a laugh, “isn’t that a ridiculously lovely name for such a monster?”

No comment, not even a nod.

Strike two.

Undeterred, Verochka plowed ahead. “They said it was the deadliest hurricane to pound Florida in almost a century.”

Abby finally nodded and continued to massage her belly.

“The reporter said it left a path of demolished homes and businesses.” Verochka shivered, grateful their house escaped serious damage. Not a shingle was torn off its roof. Not a single board ripped from the wraparound wooden deck. Its concrete pillars withstood the storm just as the architect promised. A couple of broken windows were minor compared to the chaos their little town was plunged into. A jewel by the sea, Fernandina Beach was forever encapsulated in an Edwardian era, and proud of it. Its historic downtown once again weathered the storm, but bore the visible scars.

Abby looked up. A mix of pride and stubbornness lit her face. “The residents of the Amelia Island are used to the hurricanes. We are, after all, the descendants of the pirates and fishermen and always faced the whims of nature straight on, never bending under.” Haughty, her voice reminded Verochka of an old Abby, the Coleman heiress, born and bred on Amelia Island.

Finally!

Relief washed over Verochka now that the girl was talking. “You are so right, Sweetie. It’s a hardy community and will endure, shaking off the disaster, then move on to clear out the debris and rebuild this beautiful little town back to its former glory. They always have and always will.”

Even after the deadliest storm of the century, life marched on. 

“I’m glad we stayed here in the house and not raced for the mainland.” Abby wrestled herself off the chair. “Worrywart Alex wanted to evacuate but I knew it was because of the baby and me. I’m happy he listened to me. I would never have felt safe anywhere but here. Our home.”

Verochka nodded in agreement. Due any day now, her granddaughter was antsy and prowled the house like a ghost. No chance of her being comfortable anywhere, not even in Verochka’s luxurious hotel suite. Home was not just a structure, but a sanctuary. She truly believed in its healing power and protection. So, all three of them stayed put, and rode out the storm together.

Although relieved when calm finally returned, Verochka continued to worry about Abby. Every day the girl grew increasingly restless.

“Are you okay with Alex in Jacksonville for that two-day realtors’ orientation class?” What new could a seasoned real estate broker and owner of a successful business learn from that, was a mystery to Verochka. As an eleven-year-old veteran of the industry, her grandson Alex could give his own orientation classes.

Merde. Verochka let loose a gentle breath. No point to dwell on it now.

Hoping to keep the girl distracted, Verochka chimed in, “Abs? Do you need anything?”

“Like what?” A petulant expression on Abby’s face didn’t promise any easy way out of her current funk. Always the optimist, Verochka ignored the snappish reply, and fluffed her hair cut in a short sassy bob. Briefly wondering if she was as peevish in her last days of pregnancy as Abby, she bore down on her irritation.

“Like drink, or food.” Or good spanking. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry nowadays, Grandmother.” A loud sniff accompanied her answer. “How much food does that baby need, anyway? I’ve gotten so fat, I swear that soon I won’t be able to squeeze through the doorway.”

Verochka sat on the corner of the sofa, and patted Abby’s hand. “Hang on, Sweetie. Only another few days.”

“It’s just so unbearable!” Almost wailing, Abby grabbed a throw pillow, and hugged it against her breasts. “I’m peeing every five minutes, my ankles are swollen, and my face got round like a full moon!” Closing her face with her hands, the girl burst into tears, something she did a lot lately. “I feel so ugly!” 

Verochka placed a box of tissues onto Abby’s lap. She took one, covered her face with it, and sobbed her little heart out.

Merde.

Enough was enough.

“Stop it. Just stop. What are you, a weakling?”

Abby blinked, then hiccupped. She stared at Verochka, as if undecided to be offended or ashamed of herself. But her tears began to slow.

In a gentler voice, Verochka continued, “You are as beautiful as ever. Even more so. As to your body, it gets to its normal size as soon as she or he will make an appearance.”

Verochka was dying to know the gender of the baby, and impatient to start buying some adorable tiny clothing. Designers, of course, as only the best of the best was appropriate for her great-grandbaby. But to her utter dismay, both Alex and Abby stubbornly refused to learn the sex of their first offspring, claiming that they wanted to be surprised.

Kids! Oh, well.

As soon as the baby was born, Verochka promised herself a huge shopping spree. She planned to fly to Milan for a day. Or Paris. Or maybe London. She’d decide later.

But for now, she must curb her impatience, and wait. A couple of days. Three at the most.

Merde.

Abby’s wistful voice interrupted her inner debate. “You really think so, Verochka? Honestly?”

“I really know so, Sweet Pea. Been there, done that, got a t-shirt.”

Abby gave her a wobbly grin. “I bet your ‘t-shirt’ was a satin Hermes peignoir.”

At least, she managed to distract the girl enough to make a joke. Good.

Deadpan, Verochka pursed her lips. “Actually, it was a Chanel, a mulberry silk that cost an arm and leg, but,” she shrugged negligently, “I so deserved it after giving birth to twins.”

“Ugh.” A delicate shudder later, Abby shook her head. “I really don’t know if I could have managed. Twins! That boggles the mind.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ll do it brilliantly, Sweetie, but for your sake, I’m really happy that your child is a solo number.”

“Oh, Lord, me too.” After a long pause, Abby’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “Grandmother?”

“Hmm?”

“I meant to ask you, how did you meet Grandfather?”

A tug at Verochka’s heart was tender and soft.

Oh, JJ would have loved to be called grandfather.

Ten years after his passing, and she still wasn’t used to the separation. To her, JJ was alive and well, but somewhere in a better place. He was always with her.

In her thoughts, in her heart, in her soul.

Verochka smiled through the sheen of mist that clouded her eyes. “I met him quite by accident, really. From that moment on, my life spun off its axis, and has never been the same.”

“Aww…” Abby’s voice became dreamy. She scooted closer. “Was it love at first sight?”

Verochka chuckled. “Well, first I fell in love with his music, and only later I lost my heart to the man.”

“Music?” Abby puckered her brows. “I thought he was a businessman. Or was it a banker?”

“JJ was the CEO of the Morris’ family holding. In the sixties, he was called a magnate, a mogul, a tycoon. But in his heart, he was a musician, first and foremost.”

“Tell me, Grandmother. Please. Tell me everything.”

“It’s a long story, Sweetie. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Of course, I am! I’m dying of curiosity here.”

“Well, then.” And turning back to the window, Verochka opened the floodgates to the memories…

There comes a moment in life when everything shifts. A quiet realization. A pause between who you were… and who you are becoming. For me, that moment didn’t arrive with clarity or certainty.
It came with questions. With emotions I couldn’t quite name. With a need to understand myself in a deeper, more honest way.

And so, I began to write.

Not for an audience.
Not for perfection.
But for healing.

What I didn’t know then was that those small, private moments—those words written in the margins of my days—would eventually grow into something much bigger. Something I could share. Something that could help others.

Writing became my anchor. Through journaling, I found a way to process my thoughts, to release what I had been holding inside, and to reconnect with parts of myself I had long forgotten. It wasn’t just about putting words on paper. It was about creating space—space to feel, to reflect, and to begin again.

That’s how my Etsy shop, SoulScriptBooksStore, was born.

Not as a business in the traditional sense… But as an extension of that healing journey. A place where creativity meets purpose. A place where every page holds intention.

When I began designing my books and journals, I knew one thing for certain: I didn’t want to create something ordinary. I wanted to create tools—gentle, beautiful, meaningful tools—that could support others in their own journeys.

Inside my shop, you’ll find:

• Guided journals for self-reflection and emotional healing
• Dream journals to explore your inner world
• Gratitude journals to cultivate mindfulness and positivity
• Creative notebooks to inspire writing and expression
• Fiction books that transport you into stories of love, time, and transformation

Each piece is designed with care, intention, and a deep understanding that sometimes… all we need is a place to begin. In a world that moves so quickly, we rarely give ourselves permission to pause. But journaling invites you to do exactly that. To slow down. To listen. To reconnect.

Through journaling, you can:

• Release emotions you’ve been holding onto
• Gain clarity in moments of uncertainty
• Rediscover your voice
• Heal, reflect, and grow

These aren’t just blank pages. They are quiet companions—ready to hold your thoughts, your dreams, your truth. SoulScriptBooksStore is not just an Etsy shop. It’s a creative sanctuary.

A space created for those who are searching—for meaning, for healing, for a way forward.

Alongside my journals, I’ve also created a collection of nonfiction books that explore deeper questions about life, the mind, and the unseen. These books are written for those who are curious… for those who wonder “what if?”

In my nonfiction work, I explore topics such as:

• Dreams and their hidden meanings
• Angels and the possibility of unseen guidance
• UFOs and the mystery of what lies beyond our understanding
• Time travel—where science meets imagination

These books blend research, reflection, and a touch of the unknown, inviting readers to think beyond the ordinary and explore new perspectives.

They are not just about answers—
they are about expanding the way we see the world.

In addition to nonfiction, my shop also includes fiction books—stories filled with emotion, time travel, love, and mystery.

Because sometimes, healing doesn’t come from reflection alone…
Sometimes, it comes from getting lost in a story that reminds you of what is possible.

Whether you are starting a new chapter, navigating a difficult season, or simply looking for a moment of peace in your day…

You are welcome here.

“May your troubles be less, your blessings be more, and nothing but happiness come through your door.”

International Women’s Day is a global holiday celebrated annually on March 8 to commemorate the cultural, political, and socioeconomic achievements of women. 

International Women’s Day  is celebrated on 8 March, commemorating women’s fight for equality and liberation along with the women’s rights movement. International Women’s Day gives focus to issues such as gender equality, reproductive rights, and violence and abuse against women. Spurred by the universal female suffrage movement, International Women’s Day originated from labor movements in Europe and North America during the early 20th century.

The earliest version reported was a “Woman’s Day” organized by the Socialist Party of America in New York City on 28 February 1909. In solidarity with them, communist activist and politician Clara Zetkin proposed the celebration of “Working Women’s Day”, approved at the 1910 International Socialist Women’s Conference in Copenhagen, albeit with no set date; the following year saw the first demonstrations and commemorations of International Women’s Day across Europe. 

International Women’s Day is a public holiday in several countries. International Women’s Day is an official holiday in many countries worldwide.In the United States, since the 1980s actress and human rights activist Beata Pozniak worked with the Mayor of Los Angeles and the Governor of California to lobby members of the US Congress about International Women’s Day, and she proposed the first official International Women’s Day bill in the history of the US Congress. In 1994, per Pozniak’s suggestion, the H. J. Res. 316 bill was introduced by Representative Maxine Waters, to recognize 8 March as International Women’s Day.

Hello, my dear friends!

Where did the time go? The holidays are behind us, and it is February already, the month that fills us with hope and wish for the early spring. And we have one very lovely holiday to celebrate in February: Valentine’s Day.

February 14th is a day to celebrate romance and love. But did you know that the origins of this festival of candy, flowers, and cupids are actually dark, and a bit muddled? Well, it is. And it all started with Romans.

From Feb. 13 to 15, the Romans celebrated the feast of Lupercalia. The men sacrificed a goat and a dog, then whipped women with the hides of the animals they had just slain (!!)

The ancient Romans may also be responsible for the name of our modern day of love. Emperor Claudius II executed two men — both named Valentine — on Feb. 14 of different years in the 3rd century A.D. Their martyrdom was honored by the Catholic Church with the celebration of St. Valentine’s Day.

Later, Pope Gelasius I muddled things in the 5th century by combining St. Valentine’s Day with Lupercalia to expel the pagan rituals. Around the same time, the Normans celebrated Galatin’s Day. Galatin meant “lover of women.” That was likely confused with St. Valentine’s Day at some point, in part because they sound alike.

As the years went on, the holiday grew sweeter. Chaucer and Shakespeare romanticized it in their work, and it gained popularity throughout Britain and the rest of Europe. Handmade paper cards became the tokens-du-jour in the Middle Ages.

Eventually, the tradition made its way to the New World. The industrial revolution ushered in factory-made cards in the 19th century. And in 1913, Hallmark Cards of Kansas City, Mo., began mass producing valentines. February has not been the same since.

Well, after a bit of history, I want to wish all of you a very lovely and Happy Valentine’s Day. May this February 14th bring you love and romance, AND LOTS OF CHOCOLATE!