Daniel reached for my hand.
His fingers were older now, marked by veins and pale scars. So were mine.
We walked down the steps together.
At the edge of the garden, the first daffodils had opened. Their yellow faces tilted toward the house, toward the windows glowing softly in the dusk.
I leaned my head against Daniel’s shoulder.
Behind us, the porch light remained on.
For the first time in my life, no one was waiting to decide whether I could stay.
I turned the key in my own door, and Daniel followed me inside.
