Claire stepped forward and laid her hand lightly on my forearm.

Her fingers were cold from the wind, but her touch was firm and steady.

“He gave you a good home, Mara,” she said.

“We can let him rest now.”

We stood together by the grave until the shadows stretched long across the grass, then walked back to the car without speaking.

At five that evening we pulled into the gravel driveway at 414 Birch Street in Pine Ridge.

The yellow porch light was already glowing against the gathering dusk.