Years later, in the warm stretch of another spring, Elias found himself back at Hope Haven.
The paint was newer now, but the bones of the place were the same — stubborn, weathered, alive.
He stood by the garden Mira once dreamed of building — a rough patch of earth that had grown wild with daisies, sunflowers, and crooked little tomato plants tended by small, eager hands.
At his side, a little girl clutched his hand tightly — her hair a dark, wild tangle, her laugh ringing out like a bright bell across the yard.
She wasn't his by blood. But blood had never been what made a family.
Hope had. Kindness had. Love had.
"Elias," the girl said, tugging at his sleeve, grinning up at him with a gap-toothed smile, "can we plant more today?"
He smiled, crouching down to her level, brushing a smudge of dirt from her cheek.
"Of course," he said. "We can plant as many as you want."
She darted off toward the flowerbeds, leaving him kneeling there for a moment — one hand pressed against the warm, living earth.
Above him, the sky stretched open — blue and endless, freckled with white clouds.
Somewhere, he liked to believe, Mira was watching.
Smiling.
Maybe laughing at how terrible he still was at gardening. Maybe just proud that he was still trying.
He stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, and followed the child's laughter into the sunlight.
One step. One seed. One new beginning at a time.
Life didn't promise permanence.
It never had.
But it promised moments — small and fierce and beautiful.
And Elias had finally learned to catch them in his hands and hold them tight.
Just the way she had taught him.