Marshall nods once. “You’re not them. You get to decide what legacy looks like now.”
Jesse crouches beside me, gentle for once. “Whatever you choose, it doesn’t erase them. Or what they went through.”
I breathe in the scent of honey and wood and memory.
This isn’t treasure. It’s something better.
Wyatt shifts first, quiet but purposeful. “You don’t have to decide today.”
Marshall nods. “But youcantry.”
I blink at him. “Try…?”
Jesse’s eyes light up like someone just suggested a party with snacks. “Make it.”
I stare at him. “Make it?”
“Yeah,” he says, already standing. “You’ve got the recipe. You’ve got the space. You’ve got…” he gestures vaguely at the honey house, “generations of emotional pressure.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say weakly.
Wyatt’s mouth curves. “He means you have everything you need.”
I look down at the pages again. The careful handwriting. The margin notes that feel more encouragement than instruction.
Let it rest.
Be gentle.
Listen.
“I don’t even know if I still have all the ingredients,” I say.
Marshall’s already scanning the shelves. “I bet you do.”
I frown. “How do you know that?”
He shrugs. “You’re a Kentwood. You’re bound to have everything.”
Before I can overthink it, Jesse claps his hands. “Okay. Roles. I’m morale.”
“Obviously,” Wyatt says.
“I’ll help with prep,” Marshall adds. “You tell me what to do.”
Wyatt looks at me. “I’ll read.”
My throat tightens again, but this time it’s not grief.
“Okay,” I say, surprising myself with how calm it sounds. “Okay. Let’s give it a go.”
Caleb perks up instantly. “We get to help?”
Jesse opens his mouth.
Wyatt answers first. “You can observe.”
Eliza plants her hands on her hips. “That’s not helping.”
