Harry’s schoolbooks were scattered beside the fruit bowl.

Someone had left a glass near the edge.

I moved it toward the center.

Then started dinner.

The house smelled of bread, pine needles, and the faint soap we used on the kitchen floor.

There was no ticking pocket watch.

No yellow legal pad filled with Oliver’s calculations.

No one asking for my bank password.

Only the familiar sounds of my children moving through the rooms.

And for the first time in nearly a year, that was enough.