Chapter 6
Sunshine
The farmhouse always woke before the sun.
Long before the first children wandered sleepily into the kitchen, before coffee finished brewing and before volunteers began arriving for another day, Harbor House had already come alive with the quiet sounds that reminded me healing never really slept.
Water pipes hummed somewhere inside the walls.
Floorboards creaked beneath early footsteps.
The industrial washing machines downstairs rumbled steadily as another load of donated clothes tumbled dry.
I loved this hour.
There was something comforting about beginning the day before anyone expected anything from me.
At that hour, the world always felt gentler. Before the demands of the day settled onto everyone's shoulders, Harbor House belonged to quiet routines, soft footsteps, and the comforting illusion that there was still all the time in the world.
I tied my hair into a loose braid before stepping into the hallway with an empty laundry basket balanced against one hip.
The windows overlooking the gardens were still dark, though a faint ribbon of pale orange had begun stretching across the eastern sky.
Another beautiful Carolina morning stretched across the horizon, bringing with it the quiet promise that every new day offered another chance to begin again.
As I passed the children's wing, I slowed instinctively.
The habit had become so deeply ingrained that I never questioned it anymore.
Every morning I quietly checked each room without waking anyone, not because someone expected me to, but because years spent watching over frightened children had made it as natural as breathing.
Even now, I couldn't walk past a closed bedroom door without making sure the child inside was safe.
The first room held three little girls sprawled across their beds in the careless way only children seemed capable of sleeping.
A stuffed rabbit had fallen onto the floor sometime during the night, and Emily's blanket had somehow migrated halfway across the room, though she still slept soundly upside down as if gravity had never quite applied to her.
The sight drew a smile from me. Some things, thankfully, never changed.
I quietly tucked the blanket back over her shoulder before retrieving the rabbit and placing it beside her pillow.
She never stirred, and I was grateful for that.
Peaceful sleep was precious for children who had once been afraid to close their eyes.
After one last glance to make sure she was comfortable, I continued down the hallway to Nathan's room.
His fox remained tucked securely beneath one arm while the dinosaur pajamas Charlie had insisted he needed two weeks earlier were already twisted around his legs.
Nathan looked peaceful beneath his dinosaur blanket, his stuffed fox tucked securely beneath one arm.
The nightmares hadn't disappeared completely, but they came less often now, and that quiet progress felt worth celebrating.
Around Harbor House we had learned that healing rarely happened all at once.
More often it arrived one small step at a time, almost too gradually to notice until you stopped and looked back.
I eased his bedroom door closed without making a sound.
As I turned toward the hallway again, I caught my own reflection in one of the old glass cabinet doors.
For a brief moment, my reflection disappeared beneath an older memory.
Instead of Harbor House, I saw another hallway stretching endlessly before me, narrow and dimly lit, its wooden floors worn smooth by generations of frightened footsteps.
Small bedroom doors lined each side, every one of them capable of being locked from the outside.
Even after all these years, I could still remember the scent of bleach, old wood, and fear so clearly that it stole the breath from my lungs.
I closed my eyes.
I reminded myself that I wasn't there anymore. The memory loosened its grip almost immediately, retreating beneath the warmth and quiet familiarity of Harbor House.
Harbor House wasn't the Order.
It never would be.
I drew one slow breath before continuing downstairs.
The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon.
Daisy was already standing at the large center island wearing one of her floral aprons while rolling biscuit dough with the kind of effortless confidence that came from years of practice.
She looked up as I entered.
"Morning."
"Morning."
She smiled knowingly.
"You slept."
"I did."
"I can tell."
I laughed softly.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You don't have the little line right here."
She touched the space between her own eyebrows.
"The one you get when your dreams keep you busy."
I reached up almost unconsciously.
"I do that?"
"Only on rough mornings."
She slid another tray of biscuits into the oven before dusting flour from her hands.
"You look lighter today."
The words reminded me of Remedy.
I'd thought the same thing about him yesterday.
Maybe peace really was contagious.
"I had a nice evening."
Daisy smiled.
"I noticed."
Heat warmed my cheeks.
"We just had dinner."
"I know."
She reached for another bowl.
"I'm talking about you."
I looked down at the countertop.
"You laughed."
"I do that sometimes."
"Not like yesterday."
Daisy's smile never carried judgment. She simply observed people with the same quiet patience she used when kneading bread, noticing small changes most of us overlooked until she gently placed them into words.
Her voice remained gentle.
"Yesterday..."
She stirred buttermilk into the dough.
"...you forgot to be afraid for a little while."
The truth of it caught me completely off guard.
I hadn't realized.
Not until she'd said it aloud.
For several long seconds I simply stood there.
Trying to remember the last time I'd spent an entire evening without wondering when something bad would happen.
I had simply existed without listening for angry voices, searching every room for the quickest escape, or quietly preparing myself to leave before someone decided I was no longer welcome.
I hadn't realized how exhausting those habits had become until, for one beautiful evening, they simply hadn't been there.
Yesterday I had simply existed without waiting for the world to fall apart around me, and realizing that felt nothing short of miraculous. I couldn't remember the last time an entire evening had passed without fear quietly directing every thought I had.
The back door opened before I could answer.
Cold morning air drifted into the kitchen along with the familiar scent of pine and damp earth.
Remedy stepped inside carrying two overflowing baskets of vegetables from the clubhouse garden.
He'd traded his leather cut for a worn gray T-shirt beneath an old flannel, the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
A fine sheen of dew clung to his boots.
He looked as though he'd already been working for hours.
Charlie skipped in behind him wearing bright pink rain boots despite the completely dry weather.
Mr. Pickles dangled upside down from one hand.
"Good morning!"
Her cheerful greeting filled the entire kitchen.
Daisy laughed.
"Well, somebody's awake."
"I've been awake forever."
Remedy set the baskets onto the counter.
"It was five-thirty."
Charlie nodded proudly.
"The birds were singing."
"They were."
"So I had to get up."
"I wasn't aware that was a requirement."
"It is if they're singing pretty."
Daisy smiled.
"I'll remember that."
Charlie suddenly spotted me.
"My Sunshine!"
Before anyone could say another word, she hurried across the kitchen and wrapped both little arms around my waist.
"Morning."
"Good morning, sweetheart."
"I dreamed about dragons."
"I hope Pancake behaved himself."
"He did."
She leaned closer as though sharing an important secret.
"But Mr. Pickles got lost."
"Oh no."
"We found him."
"I was worried."
Charlie nodded solemnly.
"He was eating pancakes."
Remedy laughed quietly while washing dirt from the freshly picked tomatoes.
"I don't think that bear has missed a meal in his life."
"I make sure."
"I know you do."
I watched them together.
I watched the easy conversation flow around the kitchen, the familiar teasing between people who knew one another well, and the way Charlie wandered effortlessly from one adult to the next without ever questioning whether she belonged.
That kind of security never happened by accident.
It was built patiently, one ordinary day after another, through countless moments of consistency, kindness, and love.
And for reasons I couldn't quite explain...
Watching them together filled my heart with a warmth I hadn't expected, even as it awakened a quiet ache for the children I still prayed would one day know what it felt like to belong somewhere so completely.
Charlie finally released me only because Daisy placed a mixing bowl in front of her.
"I have a very important job for you."
Charlie's eyes widened.
"I do?"
"You do."
Daisy handed her a wooden spoon almost ceremoniously.
"I need somebody to stir the pancake batter."
Charlie gasped.
"I'm the official stirrer?"
"The only one qualified."
Charlie's smile grew so wide I thought it might split her face.
"I won't let you down."
Remedy caught my eye as Charlie climbed onto her usual stool.
"You just gave her enough confidence to run for president."
Daisy shrugged.
"I figure we have at least fifteen years before that's a real concern."
Charlie began stirring with all the determination of someone convinced the fate of breakfast depended entirely on her.
"I got stronger."
"You certainly did," Remedy agreed.
"I can stir all by myself now."
"You've had lots of practice."
"I've been training."
He looked at me.
"I believe she considers pancake preparation an Olympic event."
I laughed.
"I can see that."
Charlie stopped stirring long enough to point the spoon toward us.
"You gotta watch."
"We're watching."
"No."
She frowned dramatically.
"Really watch."
Remedy rested both hands on the counter.
"I'm giving this my full attention."
Satisfied, Charlie returned to her work.