The moving truck backed into the gravel drive just as the late afternoon sun slanted through the oaks,

turning the old Victorian farmhouse gold and shadow.

I killed the engine and sat there for a second, key still in my hand, watching dust settle around the tires.

Six months since Sarah's accident,

and this was the first place

that didn't feel like a temporary crash pad.

Sophie was already out of the car,

sneakers crunching on the stones,

pointing at the wraparound porch

like she'd discovered a castle.

Dad, look! there's a swing.

I forced the smile.

Yeah, bug, we can fix it up.

Money was tight.

Sarah's life insurance had covered the funeral

and the first few months, but not much else.

The house had come to me through a will, left by a grandmother, Eleanor, who'd raised Sarah

alone after her husband walked out.

Eleanor had died five years ago, leaving the place untouched.

We couldn't afford much else, and the realtor said the market was

soft. Renovate, sell, start over somewhere smaller, somewhere brighter. That was the plan.

Inside, the air smelled of old wood and faint lavender.

...