“Thought this place could use something growing,” she said.
Ethan blinked.
Evan’s eyes shifted toward the flowers.
It was such a small thing Michael almost missed it.
From the doorway, he stood still and watched.
Hannah didn’t crowd them. Didn’t kneel dramatically. Didn’t force a conversation.
She dusted shelves. Straightened blankets. Opened the curtains wider.
And she talked the way a person talks in a normal house.
“I used to help my grandma with her roses,” she said while wiping the mantel. “She always said flowers come back when they feel enough warmth.”
The boys said nothing.
But Ethan looked at her.
Really looked.
That alone felt like a crack in a locked door.
Over the next few days, Hannah kept showing up with that same easy energy.
She hummed while folding laundry.
She talked about little things—burned biscuits, a stray cat she used to feed, a county fair she once worked at during summer.
She never asked the boys heavy questions.
Never pushed.
Never treated them like fragile glass.
She treated them like kids who still belonged to the world.
At first they only watched her.
Then one morning, when she brought in breakfast, Evan whispered, “What song is that?”
Hannah turned, surprised but careful not to make too much of it.
“Oh,” she said. “My mom used to sing it while washing dishes. Guess it got stuck in my head.”
Evan lowered his eyes, but there was color in his face now.
Michael heard about it from the housekeeper and didn’t know what to do with the hope that rose in him.
Hope had become dangerous in that house.
Hope was the thing that made the falling hurt worse.
