“Is something wrong?” the assistant asked carefully.
Daniel looked at Gabriel, now asleep on the couch, his legs hanging freely off the edge.
“Yes,” Daniel answered. “With me.”
He found Marisol on a city bus, standing near the back, one hand gripping the overhead strap, her canvas bag held close to her chest. She saw him but didn’t smile. She didn’t move toward the door.
“I’m not here to bring you back to how things were,” Daniel said. “I’m here to ask you to teach me how to step back.”
Her hazel eyes studied him—steady, unreadable.
“I’m not a miracle, Mr. Whitaker,” she replied. “I’m patience. And you’ve never had much of that.”
He nodded. For once, he didn’t argue.
“Then I’ll learn,” he said. “If you’re willing.”
After a long pause, she stepped off the bus.
It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t triumph. It was something fragile and unfinished, like those first uneven steps across the lawn.