When I first drove down the gravel lane toward Birchwood, the lake appeared through the birch trees like polished silver, and I had to stop the truck because emotion closed my throat.

The stone chimney, the wraparound porch, the sturdy dock, the weathered bait shop — all slightly smaller than I remembered, and somehow exactly the same.

Inside, the house still carried Eleanor’s scent: lemon polish, old wood, coffee, lake air. Her boots rested beside the back door. A sweater hung over a chair.

A book lay open on the kitchen table, as if she’d just stepped outside for a moment.

Sleep didn’t come easily the first few nights. By the fifth, my body finally seemed to believe it had reached a place where it no longer had to stay on guard.

That morning, pouring coffee at the kitchen sink, I heard engines climbing the gravel drive. Before I even looked, something inside me tightened. A black SUV.