Claire had once tied a red ribbon around one branch so four-year-old Lily would know which limb not to climb past.
The ribbon was long gone.
The memory remained.
When Daniel parked, Lily did not immediately get out.
He opened her door.
“We’re here.”
She looked toward the house.
Then the tree.
Then the creek behind the property.
Daniel waited.
Invitation has an exit.
Eventually she climbed down.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of dust, wood, and the lavender sachets his mother left in drawers.
Daniel carried bags.
Lily walked slowly from room to room.
Living room.
Fireplace.
Old books.
Kitchen.
Hallway.
Then back to the front window.
She stood there watching the creek shine through the trees.
Daniel passed behind her carrying a suitcase.
She touched one finger to the glass.
He stopped.
“I see it.”
Lily looked at him.
Then back outside.
That became their phrase.
Whenever she pointed.
“I see it.”
A bird.
A dragonfly.
A strangely shaped cloud.
Light on water.
A snail on the porch after rain.
Daniel did not ask why it mattered.
He simply saw it with her.
The first night, Lily slept in Daniel’s old bedroom.
He took the room across the hall.
At two in the morning he woke automatically.
The house was silent.
He walked to Lily’s doorway.
She was asleep.
Actually asleep.
Biscuit beneath one arm.
Daniel leaned against the hallway wall.
He made it downstairs before he cried.
The weeks that followed had a different texture.
Not easier exactly.
Wider.
Walt Jensen still lived across the road.