The roses had just opened.
Mya stood in the south garden with a pair of shears in her hand, clipping pale blooms for the arrangements that would go to the women’s shelter that afternoon. Morning light poured over the lawn in a bright spill, turning dew into diamonds and the long gravel drive into a silver ribbon that disappeared through the trees.
Peace lived here now. She could feel it in her shoulders, in the unhurried way her lungs filled and emptied. The house behind her hummed faintly—Casey’s music somewhere upstairs, the distant murmur of staff setting out tea, the safe, domestic sounds of a life she hadn’t known she wanted until she had it.
She reached for another stem.
Gravel crunched.
She didn’t turn at first; deliveries used the side path. But then the footsteps kept coming—
