Weeks passed. Grace learned the rhythm of the house—the rattle of keys at dusk, the kettle’s whistle, the creak of the back door that opened to a patch of sunlit grass.
Lucky grew fast, all paws and curiosity. He chased butterflies and tripped over his own feet, tumbling into soft piles of leaves while Grace watched like a patient moon.
Sometimes, during quiet afternoons, Thomas would sit on the steps and toss a ball. Lucky sprinted after it; Grace trotted calmly behind, touching noses when he returned.
They were learning to be a family—slowly, gently—each day laying another brick over what the storm had washed away.
