Two years later, the apartment had changed. There were crayon marks on the wall, a chipped mug that said *World’s Best Mom*, and a shelf with a framed picture of a smiling man holding a coffee thermos.
Evan Jr. was learning to walk, wobbling across the rug with unsteady determination. He reached for the photo, tapping it with tiny fingers.
“That’s your dad,” Nora said gently. “He had the same smile.”
The boy giggled, babbling nonsense that somehow sounded like a greeting.
Nora picked him up, pressing a kiss to his hair. The photo caught the afternoon sun, scattering gold across the floor. Dust motes danced like tiny stars.
She looked out the window toward the clouds, the same direction the road had once taken everything away—and maybe, somehow, brought it back.
“We’re doing okay,” she whispered. “You can stop worrying now.”
And if love could answer in sound instead of feeling, it might have said, “I never stopped watching.”
