Because peace becomes precious, and you become careful about who is allowed near it.
You date once or twice.
Kind men.
Normal men.
Men who ask questions and listen to answers.
Maybe one day, you think.
Maybe not.
Either way, your life is full.
On the fifth anniversary of your parents’ death, you drive to the cemetery with yellow roses.
You sit between their graves on the grass and tell them everything.
About Jason’s downfall.
About the foundation.
About Hannah buying her own little house.
About Aunt Ruth flirting shamelessly with the pharmacist.
About how you still miss them so suddenly sometimes that you have to sit down.
Then you read your father’s letter again.
The one that told you not to look back just because someone called your name from the fire.
You press the paper to your chest.
“I crossed the bridge, Dad,” you whisper.
The wind moves through the trees.
You choose to take that as an answer.
That evening, you return to the house.
The sun is setting through the dining room windows, turning the wooden floor gold. The repaired wall, the new vase, the yellow roses, the paperweight, the quiet — all of it waits for you.
You stand in the doorway and remember that terrible night.
Jason’s hand in your hair.
