“Hey…” Marshall starts.
She’s already halfway to the porch.
I follow.
The damage isn’t catastrophic, but the debris flow has done a number on the place. The fire stripped the hillside above her house bare, burned away roots that once held the soil in place. Then the rain came hard and fast, with nowhere to soak in, nothing left to slow it down.
Mud, ash, and broken branches slid downhill in a thick, grinding wave and slammed into the house before losing momentum.
A cracked porch step. Mud smeared up the siding. One corner gutter bent under the debris. The kind of damage insurance adjusters describe as minor and owners know is a personal affront.
Abilene stops short, staring. Her mouth opens, then closes again.
“It’s not bad,” I say gently. “Structurally, this is?—”
“I know,” she interrupts tightly. “I know it could be worse.”
She steps forward anyway, fingers brushing the warped porch rail, checking for a pulse.
“This just…” She swallows. “This is where my mom used to sit.”
The words land heavier than any cracked beam.
I step closer.
“Do you want me to check it?” I ask quietly.
She nods.
I crouch, inspecting the step, pressing gently, testing stability.
“It’s safe,” I tell her. “It’ll need replacing, but it didn’t shift the foundation.”
She lets out a shaky breath.
Inside, the house smells of rain and honey and wood, faintly burned. Familiar, but altered. A room you know well after the furniture’s been moved just enough to throw you off.
Marshall does a quick perimeter check while I follow Abilene through the rooms, pointing out what’s cosmetic, what’s worth fixing later, what’s fine and just looks worse because everything feels raw right now.
“Walls are solid,” I tell her. “No cracks that matter.”
She nods, eyes glossy, hands clenched at her sides.
In the kitchen, she stops.
Mud has tracked in near the back door. A small pile of debris rests against the threshold as if it tried to come inside and thought better of it.
She stares at it, unmoving. I step in beside her without thinking.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “It didn’t win.”
Her breath stutters. She turns toward me, eyes bright, unguarded, and I forget how to breathe.
“I hate that I’m this upset,” she whispers. “Nothing’s gone. Nothing important.”
“That’s not true,” I say before I can stop myself. “This is important. This is your life.”
Her gaze holds mine, fragile and fierce emotions flickering there.
