I nod, not trusting my voice.
When he leaves, the room feels smaller. I watch the snow thicken outside, soft flakes piling on the porch rail, swallowing the footprints we left earlier.
The kettle hisses. I pour the water, make tea, and sit by the window again. The only sound left is Rufus’s snores and Maisie’s soft sighs.
I lean back, sip the tea, and let exhaustion settle in.
I wake to the smell of cinnamon. Maisie is at the counter, holding the jar upside down over a bowl of oatmeal.
“Easy there, chef,” I say, voice rough.
She grins. “You said you liked cinnamon.”
“I do, but I’d also like to taste the oats.”
She giggles. It’s a small sound, but it’s hope.
Rufus flops down by her feet, tail sweeping crumbs off the floor.
“Mom called?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I lie.
Maisie frowns, stirring her oatmeal. “She’ll call.”
“Yeah,” I say. “She will.”
When she finishes eating, she pulls on her boots and asks if she can play in the snow. I help her zip up her coat, tuck her mittens under her sleeves.
She runs outside, Rufus bounding after her, both of them vanishing into a flurry of white.
Through the window, I watch her make a snow angel beside the fence that divides our yards.
Ryker steps out onto his porch, coffee in hand. He watches, too.
It’s like time folds—Claire’s laughter echoing in the same space, her hands tracing the same patch of ground, the smell of wet pine and fresh snow.
“Looks familiar,” he calls out.
I smile faintly. “Yeah. Guess some things come back around.”
He nods, gaze distant. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
Maybe not.
Maisie waves at us from the yard, cheeks flushed, scarf crooked. Rufus rolls beside her, scattering snow everywhere.
I lift my hand in return, feeling something shift in my chest.
The phone rings mid-thought, cutting through the quiet like a blade. I don’t even have to check the screen to know who it is.
Amber.
I let it buzz once. Twice. I consider not answering.
Then I sigh and swipe. “Yeah.”
“Where the hell are you?” Her voice crackles through the line—raw, hoarse, still thick with leftover tears.
