friends. The sky was a muted lavender, the water gently lapping at the shore as if applauding our quiet vows. Daniel’s mother, who had passed away years before, was not there, but a photograph of her sat on a small wooden table, the edges softened by time.
After the ceremony, we walked hand‑in‑hand back to the car, the night air crisp, the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint perfume of a nearby jasmine bush. I could hear the faint hum of the city in the distance, but the
world felt still, as if it were holding its breath for us.
Moving in was a whirlwind of boxes, mismatched furniture, and the constant clatter of the girls’ toys rolling across the hardwood floors. The house, with its high ceilings and large windows, seemed to breathe with us. The basement door stayed locked, its brass knob gathering a thin layer of dust as the weeks passed.
