Then Julian made a soft sound in Adrian’s arms.
All of us turned.
His tiny hand reached toward the sunlight.
And I knew.
“We plant something,” I said.
Clara produced a small sapling from beside her chair as if she had been waiting her whole life for someone to suggest it.
“Aspen tree,” she said. “They grow in families. One root system, many trunks.”
Marianne wiped beneath one eye and muttered, “That is annoyingly perfect.”
Together, we dug into the meadow soil.
Adrian broke the ground first. Serena loosened the roots. Clara placed a handful of compost with ceremonial seriousness. I knelt carefully, still healing but no longer fragile, and helped settle the sapling into place.
Then Adrian brought Julian to me.
I touched my son’s little hand to the soil.
“For Sofia,” I said.
Serena’s voice trembled. “For Lillian, who got lost.”
I looked at her.
