The years they spent in Boston wrapped themselves around Harper and Rachel with the ease and warmth of an old, beloved cashmere blanket—soft, comforting, and full of quiet weight.
Three years had passed already, though neither of them bothered to count. They didn't keep track with calendars or anniversaries anymore. Time showed itself in quiet, unexpected moments.
In the way Harper would catch their reflection in the tall, darkened window of their brownstone on nights when the city fell silent, and she would see the soft shifts in their features.
Her own face had changed—just a little. Softer in places, wiser in others. Fine lines had begun to settle near the corners of her eyes, the kind that came not from age, but from years of real, unfiltered laughter. And in her gaze, there was a new stillness, a steadiness that had taken root over time and grown quietly.
