Chapter 10
Sunshine
Somewhere along the way, Harbor House had stopped feeling unfamiliar.
I knew the porch swing would complain whenever someone chose the left side, the third floorboard outside the library would announce every heavy footstep, and the kitchen windows would fill with golden morning light before the rest of the farmhouse had fully awakened.
Children's drawings covered the hallway walls in cheerful, uneven rows, changing often enough that no two weeks ever looked quite the same, while the old grandfather clock in the front foyer quietly marked each passing hour with the same dependable chime.
None of those things seemed remarkable on their own, yet together they had become the comforting rhythm of a place that was beginning to feel less like somewhere I worked and more like somewhere I belonged.
For a long time...
I'd believed my life had stopped the day I escaped the Order.
Everything that followed had been about surviving, learning how to heal, and slowly becoming someone I scarcely recognized anymore.
Now, something had begun to change. The memories hadn't become any less painful, and I doubted they ever would.
Instead, life had quietly started growing around the grief, filling spaces that had once felt empty with laughter, friendship, and the gentle routines of Harbor House.
Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped waiting for the pain to disappear before allowing myself to live.
As I paused outside the children's playroom, the sound of bright, carefree laughter drifted through the doorway, and I found myself smiling before I even stepped inside.
Charlie stood in the middle of the room wearing a paper crown decorated with glitter, feathers, and at least six stickers that had absolutely nothing to do with crowns.
Mr. Pickles wore one too.
Naturally.
Nathan sat cross-legged beside Lily building what appeared to be an elaborate cardboard castle.
Emily had somehow convinced three younger children that dragons absolutely required libraries.
Oliver would've loved that. The thought came quietly, settling into my heart with a gentleness I hadn't felt before.
It didn't steal my breath or pull me beneath the weight of old grief.
Instead, it made me smile as I imagined him sitting among the children, laughing over dragons, arguing about dinosaurs, and insisting that broccoli was still far too dangerous to trust. I stood there for a long moment, surprised by the peace the memory brought.
Perhaps healing had never been about forgetting the people we loved.
Perhaps it was simply learning to remember them with more gratitude than pain, allowing their memories to become a source of comfort instead of something that shattered us each time they returned.
"Good morning!"
Charlie's cheerful voice pulled me back to the room.
"My Sunshine!"
She hurried over, the paper crown sliding sideways across her curls.
"Do you like it?"
I crouched until we were eye level.
"I think that's the finest crown I've ever seen."
She leaned closer.
"It has sparkles."
"I noticed."
"And feathers."
"I noticed those too."
"They help you think."
I raised an eyebrow.
"They do?"
She nodded with complete confidence.
"They make your ideas fly."
I laughed softly.
"I've been missing out all these years."
Charlie reached up, peeled one tiny glitter feather from the side of her own crown, and carefully tucked it behind my ear.
"There."
"What was that for?"
"So your ideas can fly too."
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
"Thank you."
She smiled.
"Now we're matching."
The morning craft session ended with paint in places paint probably shouldn't have been.
Emily somehow managed to leave blue fingerprints on the ceiling.
Nobody could explain how.
Charlie insisted the ceiling had looked lonely.
Steel wandered in just in time to witness Daisy staring at the tiny handprints overhead.
He looked up.
"Huh."
Daisy folded her arms.
"Would you like to explain this?"
Steel glanced toward Charlie.
Then back to Daisy.
"I've decided not to ask questions."
"Smart man," Bishop called from the hallway.
Charlie looked entirely unbothered.
"We made the room prettier."
Daisy pinched the bridge of her nose, though she was smiling.
"I'll get the ladder."
"I'll help," Steel offered.
"You'll make it worse."
"Probably."
The children laughed.
By late morning the activity room had finally returned to something resembling order.
Most of the children wandered outside to enjoy the sunshine while I stayed behind to wipe paint from the tables.
The old radio sitting on one of the shelves quietly played classic country songs.
Nothing loud.
Just enough to fill the comfortable silence.
I dipped another cloth into the warm bucket of water when footsteps stopped behind me.
"Need another pair of hands?"
I smiled before turning around.
"I was wondering how long it'd take you."
Remedy leaned against the doorway holding a box of fresh art supplies.
"You were expecting me?"
"I was expecting somebody."
"So I'm the lucky volunteer."
"You usually are."
The words slipped out before I thought about them.
Heat immediately warmed my cheeks.
"I mean..."
He smiled gently.
"I know what you meant."
Did he?
I wasn't entirely sure I knew what I meant anymore.
He set the box onto one of the tables before opening it.
Fresh crayons.
Construction paper.
Markers.
Glue sticks.
Charlie's favorite things.
"Donations?"
He nodded.
"Elementary school in town."
"They've been wonderful."
"They asked if we needed anything else."
I looked around the room.
"We always need books."
"I'll let them know."
For several quiet minutes we worked side by side.
He sorted supplies while I wiped down the tables.
Neither of us felt the need to force conversation.
Without either of them noticing when it had happened, the silence between them had become easy.
There was no awkwardness, no pressure to search for the perfect words, and no lingering fear that the quiet might be misunderstood.
It was the kind of comfortable stillness that grew only between people who trusted each other enough to believe they didn't have to earn every moment of one another's attention.
The song on the radio changed.
An old country ballad drifted softly through the room.
I smiled without realizing it.
"You like this one?"
Remedy asked.
"My grandmother used to sing it."
He looked up from the crayons in his hands.
"Really?"
I nodded.
"When I was little."
"What was she like?"
The question caught me by surprise, not because it was unexpected, but because of what it revealed about the way Remedy saw me.
He hadn't asked about the Order, the children I'd lost, or the grief that had shaped so much of my life.
Instead, he'd asked about someone who had loved me, reminding me without ever saying the words that my story hadn't begun with pain.
It had begun with love, too. The realization settled quietly in my heart, and I found myself smiling before I even realized I'd done it.
"She made cinnamon bread every Saturday."
He waited quietly.
"She hummed while she baked."
The memory grew clearer as I spoke.
"She believed every loaf should be given away."
"Given away?"
"She always baked two."
I laughed softly.
"One for us."
"One for somebody who needed it."
Remedy smiled.
"I think I'd have liked her."
"I think she would've liked you."
The words hung gently between us.
He looked down at the crayons for a moment before meeting my eyes again.
"She sounds like the kind of person who believed kindness multiplies."
I nodded.
"She did."
I looked toward the window where Charlie was helping Lily pick wildflowers.
"I think..."
A small smile found my lips.
"...she would've loved Harbor House."
"I think Harbor House would've loved her."
The room grew quiet again.
Outside, Charlie's delighted laughter floated through the open window.
Inside, the old country song continued playing softly in the background.
Neither of us spoke. The silence between us had become as comfortable as the conversations we shared, filled with the quiet understanding that neither of us needed to rush what was unfolding.
Shared stories, ordinary mornings, children's laughter, and countless small acts of kindness had woven themselves into something neither of us could have fully explained.
We weren't ready to call it love, and perhaps we didn't need to.
For now, it was enough to know that we had both stopped looking over our shoulders long enough to look toward the future instead, and for the first time in years, that future felt like something worth hoping for.
The sound of little feet pounding down the hallway gave us exactly three seconds of warning.
"Daddy!"
Charlie burst into the activity room carrying something behind her back.
Remedy looked up immediately.
"What happened?"
"I made a surprise."
He smiled.
"Should I be nervous?"
She nodded.
"A little."
I laughed softly.
"That doesn't sound very reassuring."
Charlie walked directly between us before dramatically uncovering what she'd been hiding.
Two paper crowns.
Both made from bright yellow construction paper.
One had blue glitter.
The other had green.
"I fixed something."
Remedy glanced toward me.
"I've heard that before."
Charlie held up the first crown.
"This one's Daddy's."
She carefully placed it on top of his head.
The paper sat crooked against his dark hair.
He didn't even think about taking it off.
"There."
Charlie stepped back to inspect her work.
"Very handsome."
Steel wandered past the open doorway at exactly the right moment.
He stopped.
Stared.
Then reached into his pocket.
"I need my phone."
Remedy sighed.
"No."
"Oh, absolutely."
Steel grinned.
"The guys will never believe this."
"They absolutely will."
"I need photographic evidence."
Charlie looked confused.
"Why?"
"So Uncle Mace knows your daddy is officially a king now."
"I already knew."
Steel blinked.
"You did?"
Charlie nodded matter-of-factly.
"He's the Daddy King."
Steel looked at Remedy.