Chapter 7 #2
"Thank you for telling me."
She blinked.
"That's all you're going to say?"
I smiled gently.
"What do you need me to say?"
She looked down.
"I don't know."
"I don't either."
The honesty surprised her.
Most people believed they needed answers.
Explanations.
Something wise enough to erase years of pain.
The truth was...
I'd learned a long time ago that grief didn't respond to advice.
It responded to presence.
"I can't imagine what that was like."
My voice remained quiet.
"And I'm not going to pretend I understand."
She nodded slowly.
"But..."
I leaned one shoulder against the window frame.
"...I can stand here while you remember them."
Despite every effort to hold them back, the tears escaped anyway, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. There was nothing dramatic about them, only the quiet release of sorrow that had waited years for someone safe enough to see it. She let out a shaky laugh, embarrassed by her own vulnerability.
"I've made a mess."
I handed her a clean handkerchief from my pocket.
"I've seen worse."
She accepted it carefully.
"I'll wash it."
"You don't have to."
"There you go again."
"What?"
"'You don't have to.'"
I chuckled.
"I guess I do say that."
"You always make everything sound like a choice."
I looked toward the gardens.
"I think everybody deserves choices."
She followed my gaze.
"I didn't have many."
"I know."
The words slipped out before I thought about them.
She turned.
"You do?"
I nodded once.
"Not the details."
I looked back toward Charlie chasing butterflies across the grass.
"But I've spent enough time helping people rebuild their lives to recognize what happens when somebody spends years having choices taken away."
Silence settled again.
Not empty.
Comfortable.
The bedroom door behind us opened quietly.
The little girl stepped into the hallway clutching her butterfly backpack against her chest.
She looked toward Sunshine.
"Excuse me."
Sunshine immediately knelt until they were eye level.
"Hi."
The little girl hesitated.
"My mommy's sleeping."
"I'm glad."
"She was really tired."
"I know."
The little girl shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other.
"I forgot something."
"What did you forget?"
"My manners."
Sunshine smiled warmly.
"Oh?"
"You said your name."
"I did."
"I didn't say mine."
Her little chin lifted just a little.
"I'm Lily."
"It's nice to meet you, Lily."
Lily looked toward me.
"And you're Doctor Remedy."
"I am."
Charlie suddenly appeared in the hallway carrying Mr. Pickles upside down.
"There you are!"
She stopped beside Lily.
"I've been looking."
Lily smiled shyly.
"You have?"
"I brought somebody."
She held out the bear.
"Mr. Pickles wanted to check on you."
Lily looked uncertain.
"For me?"
Charlie nodded.
"He says hospitals are scary."
"This isn't a hospital."
"I know."
Charlie whispered dramatically.
"But he still wanted to help."
Lily slowly accepted the stuffed bear.
Very carefully.
Almost as though she was afraid someone might change their mind.
"I'll give him back."
Charlie looked confused.
"You don't hafta."
"I don't?"
"He likes making friends."
Lily looked down at the worn bear now resting in her arms.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Just a little.
"Thank you."
Charlie smiled.
"You're welcome."
She slipped her hand into Lily's.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"I gotta show you Pancake."
"The dragon?"
"You know him?"
"I heard."
Charlie's eyes widened dramatically.
"He's famous."
The two little girls wandered toward the playroom together.
Mr. Pickles tucked safely beneath Lily's arm.
Sunshine watched them disappear.
Her hand unconsciously lifted to cover her mouth.
"What is it?"
I asked quietly.
She never took her eyes off the hallway.
"They're children."
I nodded.
"They're supposed to make friends that easily."
Her voice trembled.
"They're supposed to argue about dragons."
Another tear escaped.
"They're supposed to believe stuffed bears can fix everything."
I swallowed around the sudden tightness in my throat.
"Yeah."
She looked at me.
"They deserve this."
"They do."
Every child did.
No exceptions.
No conditions.
Just...
Because they were children.
The afternoon sun poured through the hallway windows, filling the old farmhouse with warm light.
For several moments neither of us moved.
Then Sunshine folded my handkerchief carefully into a neat square.
She held it out to me.
"I think this belongs to you."
I looked at it.
Then back at her.
"Keep it."
She frowned.
"I couldn't."
"You can."
She hesitated.
"It's just a handkerchief."
I smiled.
"No."
My eyes drifted toward the playroom where Charlie and Lily had already dissolved into another conversation about dragons.
"It's something to remind you..."
I looked back at Sunshine.
"...that you don't have to carry all of those memories by yourself anymore."
She stared at me.
Her fingers slowly closed around the folded cloth.
For the first time since we'd met, Sunshine didn't thank me.
She didn't need to. The quiet understanding in her eyes carried more meaning than words ever could, and I knew better than to mistake it for love.
Love wasn't what stood between us in that moment.
Trust was, delicate enough to be broken if handled carelessly and precious enough that I found myself wanting to protect it with everything I had.
As children's laughter drifted through the hallway and echoed across Harbor House, I realized I wasn't hoping for some grand declaration or miraculous turning point.
I wanted something quieter, something lasting.
I wanted to earn her trust a little more each day, through ordinary conversations, steady choices, and the simple promise that I would still be there tomorrow.