"Leave it," Nia said.
The image stayed on the wall. For several seconds, no one spoke. Then the next photograph appeared. Same lawn, one year later. Children playing tag across it.
Nia smiled. That was the image she wanted to keep. Not because it erased what happened. Because it proved the yard belonged to ordinary life again.
The grass where Kessler stood with the megaphone had been reseeded. James's hydrangeas bloomed along the edge of the porch. The repaired front door was stronger than the original, but from the street it looked almost the same. Nia liked that. Survival did not always need to advertise itself.
Later that evening, Tessa found her mother alone in the study.
"You disappearing?"
"For five minutes."
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
Nia looked around the room. James's corrected service record hung in a simple frame above the desk. Not his medals. Not the newspaper headlines. The corrected record.
"I was thinking about selling this place," she said.
Tessa blinked. "Really?"
"For a while. After the siege. Every room felt contaminated by memory."
"What changed?"
Nia considered the question.
"The memories kept changing."
The study was no longer only where she found the Pentagon number. It was also where she and Tessa had read James's final letter. The hallway was not only where the ram shook the walls. It was where Mrs. Chen had carried in a casserole during the trial.
The porch was not only where officers threatened her. It was where neighborhood children now sat eating popsicles.
"Places don't belong permanently to the worst thing that happened there," Nia said.
Tessa leaned against the desk. "That's annoyingly wise."
"Write it down."
"Already did."