The thing about building a life is that it doesn't announce itself.
It doesn't arrive with a timestamp or a ribbon or a moment where everything clicks into focus and you think — there. That's when it started. It just accumulates quietly. One ordinary day on top of another until you look up one morning and realize you're standing inside something you made.
Six months after the verdict. Six months after we moved into the farmhouse on a Wednesday with oatmeal in Hope's hair and three leftover bolts that still live in the dish on the windowsill because Damien refused to throw them away on principle.
