It began with a sketch.
Grace sat beneath the oak tree with her journal open across her lap, the tip of her pencil dragging gently across the page. Around her, the garden buzzed with summer, bees floating lazily, wind humming through branches, the distant giggle of her sisters from the porch swing.
She had titled the new journal:
“The Fire We Haven’t Lit Yet.”
Cassie had smiled when she heard the name, but Grace could tell there was something deeper behind the way her grandma’s eyes softened.
That evening, Grace asked her.
“Grandma, what fire haven’t you lit yet?”
Cassie looked up from the teacup in her hand. “What do you mean?”
“You always said every fire had a purpose. A reason. One that waited to be found. So what’s yours, the one you still haven’t told?”
Cassie was quiet for a
