Grace, a little taller, followed with a shy smile, her curls bouncing as she stepped. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, the nickname Daniel had given me because “Auntie” felt
less formal than “step‑mom” and more like a bridge between the two worlds we were building.
Daniel emerged from the kitchen, his hair a little longer than the day before, a few strands falling over his forehead. He wrapped his arms around the girls, then turned to me, his eyes soft but carrying the weight of a man who had been alone for too long. “Thanks for taking them,” he said, his voice low. “I owe you one.”
We spent the afternoon in a blur of crayons, mismatched socks, and
the sound of the old house settling. The girls’ laughter echoed off the high ceilings, and the house, though large and beautiful, felt intimate because of the tiny moments we shared. The only thing that felt out of place was the heavy wooden door at the end of the hallway, its brass lock cold and unyielding.
“What’s behind there?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
