The months that followed felt like the slow work of a mason stacking stone: dull, exacting, and necessary. Each day added something small—a cleared misunderstanding, a returned client, a casserole left on our doorstep—and after enough days, the shape of a life began to reappear where chaos had been. It was not the same life as before. The edges were burnished now, the seams visible. But it was ours.
Spring dwindled into summer in the new town. The sun got louder and the days stretched out. Mark’s contract work kept him busy in the way steady labor does—early mornings, late afternoons full of hauling and measuring, a smell of sawdust in his hair. He came home with new nicknames for his crew and stories that made me laugh until my ribs hurt. The diner gave me a schedule that fit around his
