Rain had been falling all day, the kind that turned sidewalks into mirrors and made the city feel like it was holding its breath. Emma Hayes hated weather like that. Not because it ruined her hair or slowed traffic, but because it reminded her that control was always an illusion, even for people who made schedules for a living.

At Meridian Technologies, Emma was the person everyone called when a system went down, when a team missed a deadline, when a client threatened to walk. Regional Director of Operations sounded like a title that came with polish and calm, but in practice it meant living inside emergencies and training yourself to smile while you triaged them.

She had learned to keep her personal life sealed behind the same steady expression she wore in meetings. Colleagues knew she was “private.” They called her “intimidating.” Some called her “brilliant,” but only when they thought she couldn’t hear it.

None of them knew about Lily.

Lily was seven, with soft brown curls that refused to stay clipped and a mind that moved like a hummingbird. She’d lost her hearing at three after a brutal illness that stole sound and left silence behind like a permanent snowfall. Emma had learned American Sign Language the way some people learned to swim: quickly, desperately, and with the knowledge that the alternative was drowning.

Most days, Emma managed. She worked too much, slept too little, and translated the world for her child with hands that never stopped moving. She told herself it was enough.

Then the babysitter canceled.

Emma stared at the text on her phone as if the words might rearrange themselves into a better outcome. The annual company Christmas dinner was that night, a formal event at the Westbrook Hotel that Meridian treated like a combination of celebration and branding exercise. Emma was expected to be there. Emma was expected to be composed. Emma was expected to embody the company’s “family values” while never revealing the parts of her life that didn’t fit into a glossy brochure.

She looked up from the phone to find Lily watching her with that unsettling accuracy children have, the kind that sees through adult pretenses as easily as glass.

Emma forced her face into something calm and signed as she spoke, because the habit helped Lily read her even when Lily wasn’t looking directly at her.

We’re going to the dinner together tonight.

Lily’s hands rose immediately, fast and precise.

The fancy dinner? With lights?

“Yes,” Emma said aloud, then signed again, careful to make the signs clear.

You’ll wear your green dress.

Lily brightened at that, because Lily loved anything that made her feel like she belonged in a storybook. Emma helped her into the emerald dress with the white lace trim, smoothing the fabric over Lily’s small shoulders, pinning her hair back even though it would escape within minutes.

You look beautiful, Emma signed. Like a Christmas princess.

Lily examined herself in the mirror with a seriousness that always made Emma’s chest tighten. Then Lily signed the question Emma had been dreading.

Will people talk to me this time?

The question landed with weight. Emma could have lied. Emma could have promised that colleagues would learn signs, that people would look Lily in the eyes, that no one would do the thing they always did: smile too hard, speak too loudly, and treat Lily’s deafness like a tragedy they were politely stepping around.

But Emma had learned something painful over the years: false reassurance was another kind of cruelty, even when it came wrapped in love.

She signed slowly.

Some will try. And we’ll stay together the whole time.

Lily considered that, then nodded.

Okay.

Emma’s throat tightened anyway. She kissed Lily’s forehead and tasted the faint sweetness of her daughter’s shampoo, trying not to think about how often Lily had sat beside her at gatherings like a quiet ornament no one knew how to hang.

At the Westbrook Hotel, the grand ballroom had been transformed into a winter wonderland, which meant there were silver and blue decorations everywhere and enough twinkling lights to make the air feel crowded. Crystal chandeliers threw warm gold across tablecloths, and a massive Christmas tree stood in one corner like a proud monarch, its ornaments glittering with the confidence of objects that were always looked at.

Emma walked in with Lily’s small hand tucked into her own, feeling Lily’s fingers squeeze when the room’s energy pressed in. Music played, laughter rose and fell, and the whole evening had the polished hum of people performing festivity.

Charlotte, Emma’s assistant, appeared almost instantly, champagne flute in hand, smile in place.

“Emma, you made it.”

Her eyes dropped to Lily. Surprise flickered. Then the smile returned, brighter, a little too bright.

“And who’s this beautiful young lady?”

“This is my daughter, Lily,” Emma said, and signed at the same time. “Our babysitter canceled last minute.”

“Oh.” Charlotte’s smile faltered in the tiniest way, like a curtain catching on a hook. She crouched awkwardly, leaning in as if volume were the key to connection.

“Hello there, sweetie,” she said loudly, over-enunciating each word like she was teaching a dog a trick.

Emma winced. She wanted to say, She’s deaf, not stupid, but Charlotte wasn’t cruel, just ignorant. Emma had met enough people like that to know the difference, and exhaustion had taught her to pick her battles.

“Lily reads lips very well,” Emma said evenly. “Normal volume is fine.”

Charlotte flushed, stood too quickly, and gestured toward the table.

“Right. Of course. Let me show you to your table.”

The evening unfolded the way it always did. People stopped by for brief, uncomfortable small talk. They asked Emma how work was going, because work was the only Emma they knew. They glanced at Lily with cautious sympathy, the way people looked at a fragile ornament they weren’t sure they were allowed to touch.

A few tried. Someone waved too enthusiastically. Someone spoke to Lily like she was five. Someone attempted a sign they’d seen online and got it wrong, then laughed as if the mistake was charming. Lily smiled politely, but her eyes dulled, and she focused on her plate as if the mashed potatoes might offer better company.

Emma felt the familiar triad of emotions rise in her: love for her child, protectiveness sharp enough to cut, and frustration that simmered under her ribs like a trapped storm.

Then, across the room, a different kind of attention shifted.

Michael Carson sat with finance, half listening while keeping an eye on his ten-year-old son, Jake, who had stationed himself near the chocolate fountain like a tiny engineer studying an important machine. Michael was new to Meridian, the newest financial analyst, and he wore that particular expression of someone still mapping a social landscape. Divorced for three years, he had moved to the city six months ago for a fresh start, which sounded optimistic until you considered how much pain usually drove people toward “fresh starts” in the first place.

Michael’s gaze caught on movement near the center of the room. Hands. Not clapping, not gesturing, but speaking.

He watched Emma Hayes, the operations director with the sharpest mind in any meeting, signing to a little girl beside her. It startled him, because Emma always seemed made of spreadsheets and steel, and because sign language lived in a different part of his life, a part he didn’t expect to see in a ballroom full of corporate cheer.

He didn’t think too much about it. He simply excused himself, crossed the room, and approached their table with the careful politeness of someone stepping into a conversation already in progress.

Lily looked up first, her eyes catching his smile. Emma prepared herself for another awkward encounter, another strained attempt, another moment of translation.

Instead, Michael’s hands rose with practiced ease.

Hello. My name is Michael. What’s your name?

Lily’s face changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch. Surprise widened her eyes, then joy flooded in like light through a window. Her hands moved fast, delighted.

I’m Lily.

Michael grinned.

Nice to meet you, Lily.

Lily’s hands fluttered again.

You know sign language?

Yes, Michael signed. My sister is deaf. I learned when I was young.

Emma sat very still. She felt something swell in her chest, something that wasn’t quite sadness and wasn’t quite relief, but had elements of both. For years, she had been Lily’s bridge to the hearing world. She had been interpreter, advocate, shield. Seeing Lily spoken to directly, without Emma standing in the middle like a translator-shaped wall, was like watching her daughter step into sunlight.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” Michael said to Emma, extending his hand while still keeping Lily included with small signs.

“Michael Carson. Financial analysis. My son Jake is over there demolishing the chocolate supply.”

Emma took his hand. His grip was warm, steady.

“Emma Hayes,” she replied, and then signed: Thank you for this.

Michael’s eyes softened, not with pity but with understanding.

“No thanks needed,” he said, signing along. “Would it be okay if my son Jake came over? He knows some basic signs too.”

Lily nodded so hard her hair clip surrendered. Emma laughed, startled by the sound in her own throat.

“I think that’s a definite yes.”

Jake approached with chocolate on one cheek and the cautious bravery of a child stepping into unfamiliar territory. Michael prompted him gently, and Jake’s hands formed a clumsy greeting.

Lily giggled, then immediately began teaching Jake the signs for “chocolate,” “friend,” and “again,” because Lily didn’t waste time once she felt safe.

For the first time since Lily had lost her hearing, Emma watched her daughter at a social event without feeling like she had to manage the air around her. She didn’t have to interpret every word, didn’t have to apologize for other people’s discomfort, didn’t have to watch Lily shrink into herself like a flower closing.

Michael sat beside her, half turned toward the children, half toward Emma, existing with the calm competence of someone who knew how to hold multiple worlds at once.

“She hasn’t smiled like that in public for a long time,” Emma admitted quietly.

“Kids can be so resilient when they’re given the chance to just be themselves,” Michael replied. “Jake’s had a rough few years since the divorce, but he’s finally coming out of his shell.”

There was no dramatic moment, no thunderous revelation, just the quiet feeling of something shifting, like a door that had been stuck finally opening.

When the evening wound down, Emma found herself exchanging numbers with Michael, agreeing to a weekend playdate with the kind of cautious optimism she hadn’t allowed herself in years.

In the hotel lobby, Lily surprised everyone by walking up to Michael and hugging him quickly, as if she was afraid she might lose the chance if she waited.

Thank you for talking to me, she signed.

Michael bent slightly to meet her at eye level.

Thank you for talking to me too, he signed back, solemn and respectful, as if Lily’s gratitude was something sacred.

On the taxi ride home, Lily’s hands barely rested. She signed about Jake’s jokes, about how Michael knew all the Christmas signs, about how she wanted to see Jake’s Lego collection and maybe teach him how to sign “snowman” properly.

Emma watched her daughter’s animated face and felt joy, yes, but also guilt creeping in around the edges.

Had she been protecting Lily, or had she been hiding?

The line between those two things could be thin as paper and just as easy to tear.

The following weekend, Emma stood outside Michael’s apartment with a homemade apple pie balanced in one hand and Lily bouncing at her side like a spring wound too tight. Emma didn’t bake often. She managed supply chains, not cinnamon, but she had wanted to bring something that said thank you without saying it too loudly.

Jake opened the door with a grin and immediately began signing an enthusiastic greeting that was technically incorrect but emotionally perfect.

Lily answered him with a laugh that came out soundless but bright, the kind of laugh that made her whole body participate.

Michael appeared behind Jake, wearing jeans and a soft sweater instead of office armor. His smile was warm, and the apartment behind him looked lived-in in the best way: framed photos of Jake at different ages, a small stack of books on the coffee table, a couch that didn’t match the armchair but belonged anyway.

In one corner, a massive Lego city sprawled like a tiny universe. Lily’s eyes widened in reverent awe.

“Jake’s been adding to it all week,” Michael said, amused. “Knowing you were coming.”

“Mission accomplished,” Emma said, and meant it. “I haven’t seen Lily this excited in a long time.”

Over coffee, while the children built Lego bridges and argued in a blend of signs and laughter, Emma found herself talking more than she planned. It wasn’t that Michael asked invasive questions. He didn’t. He simply listened in a way that made honesty feel safe.

Emma told him about the isolation of raising a deaf child in a hearing world, about the constant translation, the way she had to watch people’s faces for micro-expressions that might wound Lily. She admitted the fear she carried like a second purse: fear of bullying, fear of loneliness, fear of Lily growing up and discovering how cruel the world could be to anyone who was different.

“My sister Rebecca went through a lot of the same things,” Michael said thoughtfully. “The isolation can be the hardest part. But there are communities out there, resources that might help both of you.”

“I’ve looked into some,” Emma confessed. “But between work and everything else, I haven’t made it a priority. Maybe that’s been selfish.”

Michael shook his head, eyes kind.

“Being a single parent means constantly feeling like you’re failing at something,” he said. “Trust me, I know. But from what I can see, you’re doing an amazing job with Lily. She’s bright, confident, compassionate. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

Something warm unfurled in Emma’s chest, the way a scarf warms skin you didn’t realize was cold. It had been so long since anyone had validated her parenting, since anyone had looked past her professional exterior and seen the woman underneath, tired and stubborn and doing her best.

The playdates became a rhythm. Every weekend, the four of them did something together: the children’s museum, the park, movie nights with subtitles at Michael’s place, hot chocolate in paper cups while Lily taught Jake new signs and Jake taught Lily how to build Lego spaceships that didn’t fall apart.

At work, things shifted too. Michael stopped by Emma’s office with coffee, sometimes leaving it on her desk with a small note that read For the person who runs the world. They ate lunch together in the cafeteria, and Emma heard the soft ripples of curiosity from colleagues who weren’t used to seeing her laugh.

Charlotte, in particular, watched with the alert interest of someone who had been waiting years for Emma Hayes to reveal she was human.

Three weeks before Christmas, a crisis hit at work. A major operational issue required Emma to travel to the Chicago office on short notice. The negotiations were high stakes, the kind that could cost jobs if mishandled, and Emma’s calendar turned into a battlefield of meetings.

The problem was Lily.

Her usual childcare backups were unavailable. Emma’s parents lived several states away. Panic rose in her throat as she realized she might have to take Lily out of school and bring her along, which would be exhausting for Lily and chaotic for Emma.

“I could watch her,” Michael offered over lunch as casually as if he was offering to hold a door open. “Jake would love the company, and I know enough sign language to manage homework and bedtime routines.”

Emma’s instinct was to refuse. Not because she didn’t trust Michael, but because trust had become a precious resource. She had learned not to hand Lily’s heart to anyone lightly.

“That’s incredibly generous,” she said carefully. “But it’s a lot to ask.”

“It’s not asking if I’m offering,” Michael replied, and his tone carried a gentle firmness. “And you’d be doing me a favor too. Jake’s been begging for a sleepover with Lily.”

That evening, when Emma explained the situation to Lily, she expected hesitation. Instead, Lily’s hands moved fast with excitement.

I want to stay with Jake and Mr. Michael. Mr. Michael understands me when I sign fast. And he makes funny faces when he tells bedtime stories.

Emma blinked.

“He’s been telling you bedtime stories?” she asked aloud, then signed the question too, unable to hide her surprise.

Lily nodded, matter-of-fact.

Last weekend when you were on the phone with work. I was tired and he told me a story about a princess who couldn’t hear but could see magic that no one else could see.

Something squeezed in Emma’s chest, a mixture of gratitude and a feeling that was dangerously close to falling.

She had been so focused on protecting Lily that she hadn’t noticed how much they both needed connection. Not just survival, but actual living.

The Chicago trip went smoothly on paper. Emma negotiated, strategized, solved problems like she always did. But internally, she checked her phone constantly, craving proof that Lily was okay.

Michael sent photos: Lily and Jake baking cookies, both covered in flour like small ghosts. The children building a blanket fort in the living room. Lily asleep on the couch, a book of fairy tales open beside her.

She’s doing great, Michael texted. Stop worrying and focus on your meetings.

When Emma returned home after three days of high-pressure conversations, she unlocked her apartment door and stopped.

A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with handmade ornaments. A paper chain garland draped across the windows. A handmade sign on the wall read, in bright marker letters: Surprise!

“Jake!” a voice shouted from inside, and then Lily appeared, signing the word at the same time, both children bouncing with excitement like they had been waiting behind the door specifically to ambush her with joy.

“We wanted to make it Christmassy for you,” Michael explained, stepping into view with an expression that was half proud and half sheepish. “The kids got carried away.”

Emma stared at the paper chains, at the crooked ornaments, at the evidence that someone had entered her carefully managed space and filled it with something softer than efficiency.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and her throat tightened. “Absolutely perfect.”

That night, after Lily was asleep, Michael lingered in the kitchen while Emma made tea. The apartment was quiet in the way it only becomes quiet when a child is safely in bed, the kind of quiet that feels earned.

“Thank you,” Emma said finally. “Not just for watching Lily, but for seeing her. Really seeing her.”

Michael’s expression sobered.

“She’s an incredible kid, Emma. Smart, funny, determined.” He hesitated, then added, “She reminds me a lot of you.”

“Me?” Emma let out a soft laugh. “I hope not. I’m a workaholic with control issues.”

“You’re dedicated and protective,” Michael corrected. “And you’ve been carrying a heavy load alone for a long time.”

There was no pity in his voice, only recognition, and it almost undid her because Emma had built her life on the idea that she didn’t need recognition. She needed results. She needed functioning systems. She needed to keep moving.

But sometimes what people needed was simply to be seen without being evaluated.

As Christmas approached, Meridian announced its secret Santa exchange. Emma drew Michael’s name, and she spent days in the strange territory of choosing a gift that was personal but not too intimate, thoughtful but not overwhelming.

In the end, she chose a beautifully bound book of ASL poetry, something that honored his connection to deaf culture without making it a grand romantic gesture.

What she didn’t expect was for Michael to draw her name as well.

Charlotte discovered the coincidence and raised her eyebrows with theatrical delight.

“The universe is trying to tell you something,” she teased.

“The universe needs to mind its own business,” Emma retorted, but she smiled anyway.

The evening of the company Christmas dinner arrived again, one year after the night everything had shifted. This time, Emma didn’t dread bringing Lily. She brought her with quiet confidence, because Lily was not an inconvenience. Lily was her life.

Michael and Jake waited near the entrance, dressed in matching suits with festive red ties. Lily twirled in her new red velvet dress, and Michael signed to her with a smile.

You look beautiful.

Lily’s grin turned cheeky.

So do you.

Jake laughed, and Emma watched the exchange with a tender sense of disbelief. A year ago, Lily had been a silent island. Now she stood in the lobby of a hotel, tossing compliments at a grown man like she’d always belonged in the world.

Inside the ballroom, something else had changed too. Colleagues who had once avoided Lily now made efforts to include her. Some attempted basic signs. Some simply looked her in the eyes and spoke normally, letting Lily read lips without theatrics.

Emma noticed something that made her blink hard: during the company president’s speech, an interpreter stood near the stage.

Emma’s boss had arranged it.

It wasn’t a perfect fix. It didn’t erase years of awkwardness. But it was a sign, in every sense of the word, that people could learn when they were given a reason to care.

“People can change,” Michael observed quietly as they watched Lily teach the marketing director how to sign Merry Christmas.

“Sometimes they just need to see something differently to understand,” Emma replied, surprised by how much she believed it.

When it came time for the secret Santa exchange, Emma handed Michael her wrapped package. He unwrapped it carefully, and his face lit with genuine pleasure when he saw the ASL poetry book.

“This is incredible,” he murmured, fingers tracing the embossed cover. “How did you know I’d love this?”

“Just a feeling,” Emma admitted, suddenly nervous in a way she wasn’t in boardrooms.

Michael handed her a small box.

“Your turn.”

Inside was a silver charm bracelet. The charms weren’t hearts or stars. Each small silver piece was shaped like a hand position from the ASL alphabet. Together, they spelled out a single word.

Courage.

“Because that’s what I see when I look at you,” Michael said quietly. “The courage to face every challenge, to fight for your daughter, to open your heart again when it would be easier to keep your walls up.”

Emma felt tears press behind her eyes. Before she could respond, Lily tugged at her sleeve, signing rapidly.

Look what Jake gave me!

Jake held up a handmade picture frame containing a photo of the four of them at the park, all smiling into the camera. Around the frame, Jake had written in careful, childish letters: My friend who sees with her heart.

Emma looked at Michael, stunned.

“Did you help him with this?” she asked.

Michael shook his head.

“That was all Jake. He said Lily taught him you don’t need ears to listen, just a heart.”

Something inside Emma shifted with a quiet finality. This wasn’t just friendship. It wasn’t convenience. It wasn’t their children getting along and the adults doing logistics. This was roots, growing in places Emma had kept barren out of fear.

Later, a Santa arrived to distribute gifts to employees’ children. Lily tensed beside Emma, and Emma immediately turned toward her, hands ready.

What’s wrong, sweetheart?

Lily’s eyes flicked toward Santa, then back to Emma, embarrassed and sad all at once.

I want to tell Santa what I want for Christmas, but he won’t understand me.

Emma’s heart clenched. She opened her hands to sign reassurance, but Michael knelt beside Lily first.

Would you like me to be your interpreter? he signed. I can tell him exactly what you want to say.

Lily’s face brightened. She nodded enthusiastically.

When it was her turn, Lily approached Santa cautiously, Michael standing beside her, ready to translate.

Then Santa lifted his gloved hands and began signing.

Hello, Lily. I’ve heard you’ve been very good this year.

Lily froze. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. Then she broke into a grin so wide it looked like it could light the room. Her hands moved rapidly, and she began signing back, launching into a full conversation with Santa while the adults around them went quiet, watching something unexpectedly beautiful unfold in the middle of a corporate event.

Emma stood with her hands pressed together, tears slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them. She had spent years translating magic into something practical for Lily, because magic in a hearing world often came with disappointment. Now, here it was, signing directly to her daughter.

Afterward, Emma found Michael near the edge of the room.

“You arranged that,” she said, voice thick.

Michael looked a little embarrassed, like he’d been caught doing something kind.

“I reached out to the event coordinator,” he admitted. “Found a Santa who knows sign language. Everyone deserves a little Christmas magic.”

Outside the hotel windows, snow began to fall, soft and steady, turning the city into a quieter version of itself. In the lobby, the four of them stood together, reluctant to let the night end.

“Come to Christmas dinner at our place,” Michael said suddenly. “Both of you. It’s nothing fancy, just Jake and me and too much food. But we’d love to have you.”

Emma looked at Lily, who was pressing her nose to the glass, teaching Jake how to sign snowflake while actual snowflakes floated down like tiny secrets.

“We’d like that,” Emma said softly. “Very much.”

On Christmas morning, Emma and Lily arrived at Michael’s apartment with gifts and dessert. The day unfolded with the easy familiarity of people who belonged together: board games by the tree, a slightly overcooked turkey that Michael apologized for repeatedly, Christmas crackers that made Lily giggle when they popped, the children creating new jokes in a language made of hands and bright faces.

After Lily and Jake finally fell asleep, exhausted, Emma and Michael sat on the couch in the glow of the Christmas lights. The apartment was quiet, but it was not lonely. It was the kind of quiet that felt like home.

“I’ve been thinking,” Michael said finally, voice low. “About how sometimes the best gifts come in unexpected packages.”

Emma turned toward him.

“A year ago, I was dreading that company dinner,” he continued. “Worried about fitting in at a new job. Worried about Jake making friends in a new city. I never imagined that trying to communicate with a little girl would change my life.”

He reached for Emma’s hand. His fingers were warm, steady.

“You and Lily brought something back into our lives that I thought we’d lost after the divorce,” he said. “A sense of possibility. A sense of family.”

Emma felt tears prick her eyes, but this time she didn’t fight them.

“We’ve been alone for so long,” she whispered. “I convinced myself it was safer.”

Michael’s hand rose, gently cupping her cheek.

“I’m falling in love with you, Emma Hayes,” he said. “With your strength, your fierce protection of Lily, your hidden softness that you try so hard to conceal at work.”

Emma’s breath caught.

“I’m terrified,” she admitted. “Not of my feelings. Those are the clearest thing in my life right now. I’m afraid of what happens if this doesn’t work. Of what it would do to Lily and Jake if we tried and failed.”

“Fear is natural,” Michael said. “But so is hope. And I have so much hope for us. For all four of us.”

They leaned toward each other, slow and careful, like people who knew what was at stake. Their kiss didn’t feel like fireworks. It felt like warmth returning to a room that had been cold for years.

The next morning, Lily wandered into the kitchen and found them making breakfast together, flour on the counter, batter dripping, Michael teaching Emma the sign for pancake while Emma laughed at her own clumsy attempt.

Lily’s face lit up with understanding so pure it made Emma’s heart ache.

Lily turned to Jake, who had appeared behind her, and signed with triumphant certainty:

I told you my Christmas wish came true.

Three years later, Emma stood in the backyard of their new home, watching Michael teach their newest family member, a three-month-old baby named Rebecca, the sign for family, even though Rebecca was far too young to understand.

Lily, now ten, helped Jake hang decorations on the outdoor Christmas tree. Their hands flew in conversation, effortless now, their laughter carrying in the cold air like bells.

The journey hadn’t been perfect. Merging two families never was. There had been adjustments, doubts, logistical chaos, and moments when Emma felt her old instincts rise, urging her to build walls again. But the walls never stayed up, because Lily’s world was bigger now, and Emma had finally learned that love wasn’t something you protected by shrinking it. Love grew when you built bridges.

As the first snow of the season began to fall, Emma thought back to that first Christmas dinner, the dread in her stomach, Lily’s careful question, and the miracle of hands moving in a language that said, I see you.

Sometimes the greatest gifts weren’t wrapped in paper and bows. Sometimes they arrived as a simple gesture of understanding, a willingness to learn someone else’s language, and the courage to let silence become connection instead of distance.

And in a world that often rushed past the quiet, Emma had learned to listen with her eyes, with her hands, and with the steady, stubborn hope that family could be chosen, built, and renewed.

THE END