“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod, though my chest feels too full for the gesture to mean much. He reaches for me anyway, thumb brushing my cheek, grounding me without asking permission.
“We can stop,” he reminds me. “At any point.”
I shake my head. “No. This isn’t the kind of day you stop.”
Downstairs, the house hums.
Not loudly. Not chaotically. Just…alive.
Elma arrived before dawn. Of course she did. She always does when something matters. She moves through the kitchen like she’s always belonged here, hands sure, voice calm, presence steady enough to lean on. Peter followed soon after with crates of flowers and quiet jokes meant to keep everything human. The kind that don’t demand laughter but offer it gently.
When I finally leave the bedroom, the hallway smells like lavender and warm wood. Soft rugs line the floors now. The sharp edges are gone. The light has been filtered so it doesn’t glare or accuse. Nothing here feels clinical. Nothing feels cold.
I walk room to room, touching walls like they might reassure me back.
This was once my living room. This was once my grief.
Now it’s a place where people will learn how to breathe again.
The garden doors stand open. Wind moves through the space, carrying salt from the sea and honeysuckle from the fence line. Chairs sit in small, intentional clusters. Blankets folded neatly, not hospital-neat but home-neat. A table holds journals and pens, smooth stones for hands that don’t know what to do with themselves yet.
Gracie’s grave is still exactly where it’s always been.
The heart of it all.
Not hidden. Not fenced off. Flowers already rest there, left quietly this morning by someone who didn’t want to be seen doing it. I crouch and touch the earth, cool and familiar beneath my fingertips.
“Today’s a big day,” I whisper. “I hope you like it.”
Dane’s hand settles at my back. Solid. Warm.
Before the gates open. Before the kettle clicks again. Before the house learns how to hold strangers.
It’s just Carrie and me.
The garden is still damp with morning. Dew clings to the grass, to the edges of the stone, to the purple iris in my hand. Carrie carries a sunflower so bright it almost looks defiant, its yellow cutting clean through the grey-soft light.
We don’t speak as we walk.
We don’t need to.
This is muscle memory. Years of friendship distilled into silence that doesn’t itch.
I kneel first. The earth seeps cool through my dress. I place the iris carefully, adjusting it the way I used to adjust the blanket over my stomach when Gracie was still inside me. Protective. Reverent. Foolishly hopeful.
Carrie crouches beside me and presses the sunflower into the soil with both hands, like she’s anchoring something living.
“Oh, love bug,” she murmurs, voice breaking in that way she never hides from me. “You would be so proud of your mumma.”
My throat closes.
“She’s made a place for mummas and daddas who need somewhere soft,” Carrie continues. “A place she should have had. And she’s filling your garden with friends and stories and laughter and flowers. You’re going to be busy, sweetheart.”
She kisses the headstone gently.
I do too.
