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The new sign reads:

DAWSON-MILLER LODGE

I stare at it.

Lila says nothing.

I walk closer and run my hand over the carved letters.

Miller.

My name.

For ten years, people said it differently.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Like it came with a warning.

Killer Miller.

I learned not to care.

Or got good at pretending.

Now my name is carved into the entrance of the place Lila loves more than anything.

Beside hers.

Dawson-Miller.

I don’t know what to do with that.

So I keep staring.

Behind me, Lila finally speaks. “Too much?”

I turn. She’s watching me carefully. Like maybe she thinks she got it wrong.

I cross the distance between us. “No.”

“No?”

I pull her into me. “Not enough.”

Her arms slide around my neck. “I thought you’d hate the hyphen.”

“Do hate the hyphen.”

She laughs. “I knew it.”

“Sign stays.”

Her smile fades into something softer. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I look back at it.