in years, the old house did not look like the place where my life had shattered.
It looked like the place where the pieces had been gathered.
Not perfectly.
Not without scars.
But with care.
Later, after everyone had eaten and the sky had turned violet, Leo sat between his grandmothers on the porch steps, showing them how Noah One’s new sensor worked. Paul and Daniel discussed tool storage in the garage. My father stood beside me near the maple tree.
“I wish Noah could see this,” he said.
I looked toward Leo, laughing as the little machine bumped gently into my mother’s shoe.
“Maybe part of him does.”
My father nodded.
Then he took a folded paper from his pocket.
“I wrote something,” he said. “For you.”
I accepted it.
My hands trembled a little as I unfolded the page.
Emma,
Ten years ago, I closed a door when
