The weeks after Amina’s solo visit settled into a rhythm that felt both new and familiar. The house on Maple Lane no longer carried the weight of constant secrecy. Mornings were quieter, but the quiet was peaceful rather than tense. Elias and I cooked breakfast together without glancing at the clock or worrying about hidden touches. We talked about ordinary things — the upcoming town harvest festival, whether we should repaint the porch railing before winter, how the lilacs might look next spring — and the big things too, in small, careful doses.
One Tuesday afternoon, while Elias was fixing a loose board on the back steps, I sat on the porch with my notebook, making a list of things we might want to plant in the garden next year. The air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of fallen l
