Hailey’s POV
The light comes in softer now.
It used to slice through the curtains like it was trying to accuse me of something—every morning a reminder of what I hadn’t fixed yet, who I hadn’t become. These days it just… arrives. Warm. Patient. Like it knows I finally stopped running from it.
I stand at the kitchen window, coffee mug cradled between both hands, watching the way the maple in the front yard has started to turn gold at the edges. Autumn again. Funny how the same season can feel like an ending one year and a beginning the next.
There’s a small handprint on the glass—tiny fingers splayed from when she pressed her palm there yesterday, giggling as she tried to “high-five the outside.” I haven’t wiped it away. I probably never will.
Footsteps behind me—bare feet on hardwood,
