Chapter Twenty-Seven
The first anniversary sneaks up on us.
Not because we forgot, but because life has learned how to carry joy without announcing it. The date arrives wrapped in ordinariness—a workday, a grocery list, a sky undecided between sun and rain.
Still, I feel it in my chest all day. A quiet awareness. A remembering.
When I come home that evening, the apartment is lit softly. Not decorated. Not staged. Just candles on the table, music low, Noah standing in the kitchen like he’s been there all along, waiting.
“Happy one year,” he says.
I smile, something warm blooming behind my ribs. “Happy one year.”
Dinner is simple. Familiar. We talk about the day, about nothing urgent, about how time moved faster than we expected and slower than we feared.
“At this point last year,” N
