"We need to say this. All of us." He looked back at the group, then at Hannah. "We're sorry."
Hannah's throat tightened.
"When your father's crimes came to light," he continued, "we were hurt. Angry. My son's college fund..." He swallowed hard. "But that wasn't your fault. And we treated you like it was."
"You served my family for years," Mrs. Morton said, stepping forward. “Years of birthday cakes and comfort and kindness. And the moment you needed us—" Her voice broke. "We abandoned you. I'm so ashamed."
"We whispered behind your back," Tommy's mother added, one hand on her son's shoulder. "Crossed the street to avoid you. Let our children believe you were..." She couldn't finish, just shook her head. "You didn't deserve that. None of it."
"We let fear make us cruel," Eleanor Matthews said softly. "Your grandmother would be ashamed of us. I know I'm ashamed of myself. There's no excuse for what we did. How we treated you. You're not your father's sins, Hannah. You never were. And we should have stood by you from the beginning."
"We're not asking you to forgive us right away," Mrs. Peterson said, her voice thick. "We don't deserve that. But we're asking for a chance. A chance to show you that we're better than who we've been these past months."
Hannah's vision blurred. She looked at each face—some openly crying now, all of them carrying the weight of their shame.
"A chance to earn our way back into your life," Mrs. Morton added. "Back into this place that's always been the heart of our town."
"We love you, Hannah," Tommy's mother whispered. "We should have said it before. Should have shown it. But we're saying it now. We love you. And we're so, so sorry."
The words hung in the air—raw, honest, painful.
Hannah's chest ached with the weight of months of isolation, of hurt, of wondering if she'd ever belong here again. Her eyesfound Jake across the rubble. He stood perfectly still, his jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. Watching. Ready to step in if she needed him. Ready to defend her against the world.
She could see it in his face—something fierce and protective and utterly certain. A look that said these people had one chance to make this right, and if they wasted it, they'd answer to him.
The intensity of his love wrapped around her like armor.
She wasn't alone anymore. Would never be alone again.
Hannah looked back at her town—at the people who had hurt her, yes, but who were here now, covered in ash and soot, trying to make things right.
She thought of her grandmother, who had always believed in second chances. Who had taught her that love wasn't just about the easy moments, but about showing up when things got hard.
"Okay," she said softly. "Let's rebuild it together."
Mrs. Peterson let out a sob, and suddenly Hannah was surrounded—careful arms wrapping around her, gentle hands on her shoulders, voices murmuring apologies and promises and love.
Not perfect. Not painless.
But real.
And worth fighting for.
They worked in waves.
Hannah stood in what remained of her grandmother's kitchen, watching as people moved around her with purpose. No more words about why they were there. No more awkward apologies or explanations for months of silence.
Instead, they showed her.
Mr. Wilson knelt beside the ruined display cases, his carpenter's hands already sketching measurements on a notepad. "Cherry wood," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Like before, but with better joints. Brass fittings maybe."
Sarah attacked the smoke damage on the walls with fierce determination, scrubbing until her arms ached. She didn't say she was sorry for walking away. But every stroke of the sponge felt like penance.
The Morton boys hauled debris, forming a chain from kitchen to dumpster. Their father consulted with Jake about structural integrity, about load-bearing walls, about making things stronger than before.
And through it all, Eleanor worked steadily in the corner, salvaging what she could from Hannah's recipe box. Each card was carefully cleaned, dried, preserved. Even the ones that were too damaged to read were treated with reverence—tucked away to be rewritten later, when Hannah was ready.
"The box itself can be restored," Eleanor said softly, her fingers tracing the scorched wood. "It just needs time. And care."
