For forgetting that she wasn't Richard Everett's sins.
She was Hannah.
She was their Hannah.
The girl who had grown up here. Who had baked their children's birthday cakes, had memorized their coffee orders, had kept the warmth of this place alive long before they ever noticed.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Tried to breathe past the tightness in her chest.
"I don't—" Her voice cracked. "I can't?—"
"You can."
Jake's voice was gentle but certain. His thumb traced slow, steady circles against her spine.
"Let them help."
She looked at him then, at the man who had never truly left her, even when she'd shoved him away, even when it hurt them both.
And she let herself believe.
Not in buildings.
Not in the past.
In people.
She turned back to them—to her town.
Her family.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The words felt small, but the weight of them filled every broken space inside her.
Jake's arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. "Ready?"
Hannah inhaled.
Exhaled.
Looked at all of it.
And for the first time in months, she wasn't standing in the wreckage of her past.
She was standing in the beginning of something new.
"Yes," she said.
And this time, she meant it completely.
"I'm ready."
The work had been goingon for an hour when Mrs. Peterson called for a break. Hannah looked up from sorting through salvaged baking equipment to find the group gathered around her—faces she'd known her whole life, suddenly unable to meet her eyes.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy.
Finally, Mr. Wilson stepped forward. His weathered hands twisted his carpenter's cap, and when he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.
