The words penetrated the medication haze, landing with unexpected weight. Four people. He’d saved four people.
The same number who’d died in Virginia.
“Four,” he repeated, the word barely audible.
She lifted her head to look at him, catching the significance in his tone. “The warehouse fire. There were four deaths.”
“Three workers. One security guard who tried to stop me.” He’d memorized their names, their ages, their surviving family members. Carried the weight of those lives for eight years. “Four lives destroyed. Including mine, in a way.”
“And today, you saved four. Landry, Laura, Hollis... and me.” Her voice softened. “Full circle.”
The realization settled over him like a weight and a release all at once. It didn’t erase what he’d done—nothing ever would. But maybe it balanced the scales just enough that he could finally breathe.
“Not that it makes it even,” she added quickly. “I know it doesn’t work like that. But?—”
“No,” he interrupted, surprising himself. “You’re right. It matters.”
He’d carried those deaths like stones in his chest for years, unable to set them down. The weight of them had bent him, shaped him, until he barely recognized himself. But today, he’dchosen differently. Ran toward the fire instead of away from it. Fought it. Defeated it.
Maybe he could carry that too.
“I don’t feel ashamed of them anymore,” he said, the realization forming as he spoke it. “My scars. Not the old ones, not the new ones.”
“Why would you? They’re proof you survived. Proof you saved people.”
“Proof I chose to be better.” His throat tightened. “The kintsugi. It was never just for you.”
She propped herself up on one elbow to look at him properly, her eyes fierce with conviction. “Your scars are beautiful. They’re you. And I love every inch of you, Anson Sutter.”
He cupped her face with his bandaged hand, clumsy and careful. “Come here.”
She leaned down and he kissed her, tasting coffee and chapstick and hope. When they broke apart, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“You’re stuck with me,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out.” She settled back against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her body warm and solid against his side. “I promise.”
They lay together in comfortable silence while machines beeped and nurses passed by in the hallway. His hands throbbed, his lungs still felt raw from smoke inhalation. Tomorrow would bring the start of physical therapy, the uncertainty of how much function he might lose, the long road of recovery ahead.
But right now, with Maggie pressed against him, with the knowledge that his father was trying, that he’d balanced at leastsome of his karmic debt, that he’d chosen to run toward fire instead of away from it—Anson felt something he hadn’t felt since before the warehouse fire destroyed his life.
He felt whole.
Not perfect. Not unmarked. Not without pain. But whole, in the way broken things mended with gold became more than they were before the breaking. Every scar, every crack filled with the precious metal of experience, of survival, of love.
Maggie’s breathing deepened as she drifted toward sleep, her weight trusting and complete against him. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, careful not to wake her, and let himself accept, finally, that some broken things weren’t meant to be fixed.
They were meant to be transformed.
forty-six
6 MONTHS LATER
The sander whirred in Maggie’s hand, sending fine sawdust spiraling through shafts of spring sunlight. She switched it off and ran her fingers over the maple shelf, checking for imperfections. Perfect. Three down, two to go for Nessie’s new display wall. Behind her, a ceramic mug teetered at the edge of her workbench, pushed by Spark’s orange paw. She caught it just before it crashed to the concrete floor.
“You little menace.” She scooped up the kitten—not so little anymore at nearly nine months old—and nuzzled his warm fur. “That’s the third thing you’ve tried to destroy today.”
