kitchen with drawings on the refrigerator.
“Hi,” I said.
Lily smiled shyly. “Hi, Mr. Steel.”
“Ryker is fine.”
Owen frowned. “Like biker?”
“With an R.”
“Rrryker,” he said, rolling the sound dramatically.
Lily giggled.
There it was again.
That tiny flash of childhood.
I held onto it.
“How was breakfast?” I asked.
“Pancakes,” Lily said.
“With blueberries,” Owen added. “But not inside. On top. Because inside is sneaky.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Do you eat pancakes?” Lily asked.
“Not often.”
“Why?”
I had no answer that would make sense to a child.
“Maybe I forgot about them.”
Owen looked concerned. “You shouldn’t forget pancakes.”
“No,” I said. “I’m beginning to understand that.”
Maya smiled faintly from somewhere off camera.
The call lasted six minutes.
Afterward, my office felt different.
Not warmer.
Not yet.
But aware of its own emptiness.
Over the next week, the story did not become simpler.
Claire Bennett’s
