Day One at The Haven
The morning air was damp with leftover rain, the kind that settled deep in the ground and made the earth smell honest, a very natural feeling.
I stepped out of the car and zipped my jacket. Overhead, clouds drifted slowly, casting long gray shadows over the rising wooden frames of The Haven.
The site was busy—workers shouting measurements, the scent of fresh lumber sharp and clean, And yet, despite the noise, it felt sacred.
Then I heard the second car pull in.
Leona Hayes stepped out with the kind of energy that said she wants to be here, but she's still adjusting to the circumstances.
Boots scuffed, hair tied back in a no-nonsense knot, hoodie layered under a cracked leather jacket. Her expression was unreadable.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I brought coffee,” I
