The snow had finally eased into a soft, steady drift by mid-morning, the kind that muffled sound and made the world feel smaller, safer.
I was curled on the window seat Luke and James had built for me—blanket tucked around my legs, cup of Dirk’s spiced chai warming my hands—watching the flakes settle on the porch railing where my name was now carved deep into the beam.
The brothers moved around me in their usual quiet rhythm: Matthew splitting wood outside, the rhythmic thwack carrying through the glass; Mark and Luke clearing the path to the shed; James reading in the armchair across from me, occasional glances my way that felt like touches; John in the kitchen humming while he prepped lunch.
For the first time in weeks, I felt… settled.
Not safe, exactly—safety was an illusion up her
