The house had been cleaned for years to smell like him.
Tonight it smelled like smoke and rope, like pine sap stuck to skin, like doors that had learned new hands.
Isabella stepped over the threshold without slowing.
She didn't touch the walls.
She let her eyes touch everything instead.
“Light," she said.
Scar Mouth struck flint.
Fire climbed a wick and made the room admit its edges: the entry hall where her mother had once taught her how to greet a guest; the stair her father had taken two at a time when letters arrived; the window Liam had widened and then barred from the outside when he decided air should ask permission.
Open Hands waited near the doorway like a hinge.
“You sure?" he asked softly.
“This house—".
“Is mine," Isabella said.
“I know where it creaks.".
He nodded
