He looked around at the mess on the rug, the sunlight on the walls, the sound of his sons being loud and ordinary.

He thought about Claire—not as a wound, but as a presence. A woman who would’ve been unbearable about this, yes. A woman who would’ve cried and laughed and thrown her arms around everyone in the room.

Evan closed his eyes and let the memory wash through him without drowning him.

When he opened them, Aaron was looking at him.

“What?” Evan asked, smiling.

Aaron’s grin turned mischievous. “You’re making the sad face again.”

Evan chuckled. “Am I?”

Simon pointed at him like a tiny judge. “No more sad face,” he declared. “We’re building.”

Evan leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. “Okay,” he said. “Show me how.”

And as his sons talked over each other, as Rachel’s quiet laughter joined theirs, Evan understood something simple and profound:

Sometimes the miracle isn’t that broken bodies learn to move again.

Sometimes the miracle is that broken hearts remember how to believe—and how to stay.