Chapter 3 #6
Evelyn looked toward the little boy.
"I don't think he realizes how wise he is."
"I think he does," Remedy answered softly.
Nathan seemed satisfied with that.
He walked over to the desk, carefully placing something beside the plate.
It was a crayon drawing.
The paper had been folded in half several times before being smoothed out again.
Remedy opened it carefully.
The picture showed three people standing beside Harbor House.
One wore a large red cross on his shirt.
Another held what looked suspiciously like a stuffed fox.
The third stood nearby with yellow hair stretching almost to the bottom of the page.
Above all three floated a bright blue sky filled with uneven yellow stars.
"They're daytime stars," Nathan explained.
"I know stars don't come out in the day."
He shrugged.
"But maybe they do if people need them."
Remedy swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat.
"I think you might be right."
Nathan smiled for only a second before quietly taking Evelyn's hand again.
"We were just bringing this."
"I'm glad you did."
After they disappeared down the hallway, Remedy leaned back once more, looking between Nathan's drawing and Charlie's picture still resting beside the computer.
Children had a remarkable way of seeing people differently than adults did.
Grown-ups often focused on titles—doctor, medic, volunteer, president, road captain—as though those words explained everything worth knowing about a person.
Children cared about something entirely different.
They remembered who stayed beside them when they were frightened, who listened without hurrying them, who made pancakes on Saturday mornings, who remembered bedtime stories, and who made the world feel safe again.
Looking at Nathan's drawing, Remedy couldn't help wondering if children understood people far better than adults ever would.
His eyes drifted once more toward the fresh coffee.
Toward the lunch someone had quietly replaced without asking for recognition.
For just a moment, another face slipped into his thoughts.
Without meaning to, his thoughts settled on Sunshine.
He pictured the loose braid falling over one shoulder, the faint dusting of flour still clinging to her cheek from breakfast that morning, and the warm honey-colored eyes that somehow managed to make frightened children believe everything would be alright.
The image appeared so effortlessly that it caught him completely off guard.
He smiled to himself before immediately shaking his head.
"You're imagining things."
She had enough people to care for already.
The women.
The children.
Everyone who walked through Harbor House carrying invisible scars.
She certainly wasn't worrying about him.
Even after he tried to dismiss the thought, his eyes drifted back to the coffee one last time.
The cream had been measured exactly the way he liked it, and no matter how hard he searched his memory, he couldn't remember ever telling anyone at Harbor House that detail. Somehow, someone had simply noticed.
Outside the office, Sunshine crossed the hallway carrying a stack of freshly folded blankets toward the children's wing, completely unaware that the simple lunch she'd quietly replaced had become the brightest part of Remedy's afternoon.
Without a second thought, she continued on with the rest of her day, greeting residents by name as they passed, pausing long enough to straighten a little girl's crooked ponytail, and lending another volunteer a hand with a box of donated books before disappearing into the playroom.
For Sunshine, kindness had never been something performed for recognition.
It was simply woven into the way she moved through the world.
Bishop watched her from the far end of the corridor.
Steel wandered in carrying a toolbox over one shoulder, stopping beside him.
"What're you smiling at?"
Bishop's eyes remained on Sunshine.
"I think something's growing."
Steel frowned.
"The tomatoes?"
Bishop chuckled.
"No."
He watched Sunshine disappear around the corner before turning toward the clinic where Remedy had finally stopped working long enough to eat.
"Something a whole lot more important."
Steel looked from Sunshine...
To Remedy's office...
Then back again.
Understanding slowly spread across his face.
"Took 'em long enough."
Bishop laughed softly.
"They've only just met."
"Still."
Steel grinned.
"I've got twenty bucks Mace notices before either of them do."
"I'll take that bet."
The two brothers headed toward the clubhouse together, leaving the afternoon wrapped in the same quiet rhythm with which it had begun.
There had been no dramatic declarations, no stolen kisses, and no grand realization that either of them could have named.
Instead, the day had been filled with ordinary acts of kindness—a forgotten lunch replaced, a cup of coffee prepared exactly the right way, gentle conversations, and countless small moments that might have seemed insignificant to anyone watching from the outside.
Yet love rarely announced itself with fireworks.
More often it grew quietly through simple acts of care, taking root long before the people living the story realized their hearts had already begun to change.