"Perfect," Sarah declared with complete satisfaction.
"It's crooked."
"That makes it special though." She looked up at Ms. Reed for confirmation. "Right, Ms. Reed?"
"Absolutely right." Ms. Reed’s smile was warm, and something in her expression shifted when her gaze moved to me. Softer. More open. "Imperfect things are usually the most beautiful ones."
I didn't know what to say to that. I wasn't good with words on a normal day, and something about this woman made my brain short-circuit completely.
"Thank you," I managed finally. "For helping her. For all of this."
"It's what I'm here for." She stood, brushing glitter from her knees. "You two make a good team, you know. Better than you think."
She moved away to help another student. I watched her go back into the middle of the classroom, still surprised at the easy way she navigated the chaos, the genuine warmth she offered each child. The shadow still lived in her eyes when she thought no one was watching, but here, in this room full of noise and glitter and small disasters, she glowed like something luminous.
The event wound down in a cheerful, chaotic blur. Sarah clutched her flower like a trophy, like something precious, as we gathered her things and made our way toward the door.
"Mr. Brennan?" Ms. Reed caught us at the threshold, slightly breathless. "Sarah did wonderful work today. Really wonderful. You should be very proud."
"She's the talented one. I just provided moral support."
"She told me you taught her about patience. How you have to move slow and calm with the bees or they get upset and sting." Ms. Reed tilted her head thoughtfully. "Sounds like pretty good life advice, actually."
"Bees are easier than glue sticks," I said. "Bees make sense."
She laughed. That surprised, warm sound again that did something strange to my heart. "I believe it. Have a good afternoon, both of you."
"You too, ma'am."
"Emma," she corrected gently. "Please. You can call me Emma."
“Emma.” I nodded, not trusting my voice to behave.
We stepped out into the cool, quiet air of the parking lot. The silence felt like a relief and, strangely, like a loss.
The drive up the mountain was peaceful. Sarah held her flower like it was made of spun glass, watching the trees blur past her window.
"Uncle C?"
"Yeah, kiddo?"
"Ms. Reed is really nice."
I kept my eyes on the winding road. "Yeah. She really is."
"She smells like cookies. And something else." Sarah paused, considering. "Like that soft stuff. The one we don't use for laundry."
I didn't have a response to that. But I thought about it, about her, about cookies and something soft, I pondered the entire way up the mountain.
Hours later, in my cabin, the silence was profound and familiar. Sarah was asleep, the paper flower placed carefully on her nightstand where she could see it first thing in the morning. The wood stove crackled steadily. I sat in my worn armchair, a book on beekeeping open but completely unread on my lap.
I couldn't stop thinking about her.
She wasn’t just Sarah's stories anymore, about a teacher who read with funny voices, who always had cartoon band-aids ready, who'd patiently helped her sound out the word 'mountain' six times until she got it right. She was what I'd seen today with my own eyes. The warmth. The quiet, steady strength. The way she'd looked at Sarah and known exactly what my niece needed without being told.
And those eyes. Hazel, bright, holding something heavy and unspoken underneath the warmth. A grief that felt achingly familiar.
She intrigued me. A puzzle I hadn't expected to find in a second-grade classroom.
