He gave me rest.

He reached across his own death and lifted, permanently, the terror of the fall, so that a grandmother could finally, for the first time in years, stop bracing — and raise her grandson not from inside the constant low hum of fear, but from inside safety.

That is what a roof means, to someone who has been without one.

Shelter is not what it means.

It means you are allowed, at last, to breathe.

Chapter 13 — The Boy in the Next Room