Autumn came like a whisper.
The green of the hills faded into amber, and the persimmons on the old tree in the back garden began to ripen, bright orange lanterns against the crisp blue sky. Roset found herself outside more, carrying Lea on her hip as she gathered the fruits into a basket or simply watched the wind roll through the tall grasses beyond their home.
Life had found a rhythm.
In the mornings, Hino left early for the town office. Lea waved at the front door like she understood he'd return soon. Roset would feed her, then write during her nap. She would write short stories filled with quiet joy, small sadness's, and imagined homes in faraway lands.
Some of the stories had started to gain attention online.
A few editors reached out.
But Roset didn't rush anything. Not now. Not yet.
She was still learning to breathe fully again.
One day, after Hino left and Lea was down for a nap, Roset found herself standing in front of the small drawer where she kept her old phone.
She hadn't opened it in months.
She sat cross-legged by the window, unlocking it slowly. The wallpaper blinked to life. A picture of her and her sisters taken just weeks before the world had broken. They were sitting in a café back home, laughing, their hands wrapped around colourful mugs of tea. She stared at it for a long time, her thumb brushing across the screen.
The grief didn't come in the way it used to.
It was quieter now. But still there.
She scrolled.
Photos. Messages. A few voicemails she hadn't been able to listen to before. She didn't press play. Not yet.
The ache in her chest was gentle but persistent.
She thought of the quiet rows of brick houses back home, the early Sunday markets, her grandmother's baking tray full of Yorkshire puddings. The familiar weight of her mother's knitted throw. The warmth of voices she'd never hear again.
But she also looked out the window and saw Lea's blanket drying on the line.
She heard the rustle of chickens in the coop, and the faint sound of the Tanakas' wind chimes dancing with the breeze.
Two homes.
One held in memory.
One built from ashes.
That evening, Hino brought home a small crate of sweet potatoes and said the Tanakas had invited them for a moon-viewing dinner the next night. Roset smiled.
She had just finished making a new roast recipe, her own variation with Japanese sweet miso and rosemary. Hino took a bite and grinned.
"It tastes like a memory," he said.
Roset tilted her head. "A good one?"
"The best kind."
They ate together with Lea in her high chair babbling, throwing bits of carrot on the floor. The scent of roasted vegetables mixed with cool autumn air through the open kitchen door.
And for the first time in a long while, Roset felt full in every sense of the word.
That night, as the stars began to settle above their little house with its deep eaves, Roset stepped outside alone.
She looked up.
Somewhere across that same sky was a place she once called home. And though she might never walk its streets again, it was still with her, in the food she made, the stories she told, the lullabies she sang to Lea.
A life lost.
And a life found.
She smiled softly and turned back toward the warm glow of the house.