Three small boys sat cross-legged on a patterned rug. They were five years old, identical enough that sometimes the staff stumbled over their names. Not Marcus. He had memorized their features. He simply did not know how to approach them without feeling like an intruder.
Their new caregiver knelt beside them. Her name, he recalled, was Rosemary Hale, though most called her Rosie. Her auburn hair was tied neatly back. Her posture was poised yet inviting. She was guiding the boys in a soft spoken evening reflection, her voice steady and warm.
“Think of one thing that made your heart feel light today,” she said. Her tone was gentle. Not overly sweet. A tone that respected children rather than coddled them.
“I liked the puzzle,” said the first boy, Oliver. His name had been chosen by Marcus’s late wife from an old English novel she adored.
“I liked the silly song you sang,” added Jasper, who giggled at his own memory.
The last boy, Milo, hesitated. His voice came out quiet. “I liked… that nobody was scared.”