Dawson
Grace’s family is warm and welcoming, especially for having a surprise house guest that they did not plan on showing up with their daughter.
The moment I stepped inside, the house wrapped around me like a winter quilt. Heat from the old furnace hums up through the vents, carrying with it the scent of cinnamon, pine, and something sweet baking in the kitchen. The pale yellow walls are lined with framed photographs of Grace at different ages, smiling with her parents. Parker is even in a few of them, too.
The place feels lived-in, loved, and steady.
It’s a far cry from the barracks and even farther than anything I ever knew growing up. My childhood houses were temporary, bare, stripped of any and all personality; they were the kind of place you left behind before you could get
