The drive into town should have cleared his head.
It didn't.
Declan kept the truck window cracked as cold morning air slid across his skin. Early spring in southern Oregon carried a sharpness that clung to everything. Mistwood sat tucked into the hills outside Jacksonville, so the road wound through stretches of pine and oak, past damp fields where the fog still clung low to the ground.
He needed the bite of the air, something sharp enough to override the remnants of the dream still clinging to him like smoke.
He tried not to think about the bruise warming beneath his shirt.
He tried not to think about her voice.
Her fingers curling into his shirt.
The soft weight of a newborn in her arms.
The boy laughing in the grass.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles throbbed.
Work.
He needed work.
Work always steadied him.
Mistwood appeared slowly as he rounded the hill, its edges softened by early morning light. Houses crouched against the slope, their roofs damp with dew, moss creeping along their eaves. He passed an old wooden bridge, the boards rattling under the tires, then settled onto the main road into town.
Main Street emerged ahead, a stretch of brick storefronts and preserved buildings that had clearly been loved back to life instead of renovated into sterility. The facades were faded in the kind of way that came from decades rather than neglect. Lamp posts still bore the shapes of old gaslights even though the bulbs were modern, casting long vertical shadows along the sidewalk.
These small towns always reminded him of possibilities.
Places where old things weren't thrown away, but brought back to life.
Just like he did.
He turned down a narrow connecting street where Victorian homes lined both sides. Tall and narrow. Steep gables. Wraparound porches. The kind of houses that wore time proudly instead of being crushed by it. They tugged at something in him every time. Always had.
His grandparents had adored Victorian homes.
His grandmother used to tell him these houses were built with intentional hearts.
Homes designed to hold families.
Stories.
Love.
His grandfather showed him the difference between hand-carved gables and machine-cut ones before Declan could even read. He grew up believing houses could remember the people who loved them.
And when he entered foster care, he lost his grandparents.
But he gained Joe, his foster father.
And Earl, Joe's brother.
Joe restored historic buildings for a living.
Earl worked beside him.
Neither man talked much, but both taught him everything.
Joe taught him how to sand antique wood without scarring it.
Earl taught him how to listen to a structure's tension and age.
Joe taught him stained-glass repair.
Earl taught him patience, the kind you needed to rebuild anything that mattered.
Restoration saved him when nothing else could.
It gave him something to belong to.
Something steady.
Something worth doing right.
He made one final turn and pulled into the gravel driveway beside Mason's truck.
The engine coughed once before settling into silence.
For a moment, everything went still, the world holding its breath around him. The ticking of the cooling engine sounded too loud in the quiet. His fingers stayed wrapped around the steering wheel longer than they should have, knuckles white, breath shallow. That unwelcome heat stirred beneath his shirt, a slow throb against his skin like it wanted his attention.
Declan clenched his jaw. No. Not now. He wasn't thinking about the dream. He refused.
He shoved the door open before doubt could creep in.
The crisp air hit him as his boots crunched into the gravel. He climbed out of the truck with more force than necessary, every movement deliberate, as if sheer determination could smother the memory trying to rise in the back of his mind. The warmth pulsed again…persistent, insistent.
He straightened, squared his shoulders, and ignored it.
Mason hopped out of his truck immediately, boots hitting the gravel like he had been caffeinated since birth. "Morning. Wow. You look like someone hit you with a shovel." He squinted. "A big one. Maybe wielded by someone with emotional issues."
Declan gave him a flat look. "House first. Talking later."
"So… a terrible night. Fantastic." Mason clapped his hands once. "I thrive on this dynamic. Really brings out my best work."
Declan kept walking. Mason scrambled to catch up.
Mason lifted both hands. "Right. No humor before nine. Logging that."
Declan headed toward the porch without responding. Mason jogged to keep up, muttering something about his boss being built out of Irish storm clouds.
They climbed the sagging porch together. The boards groaned in protest, the specific pitch of the sound telling Declan exactly which joists had failed and how long they'd been ignored. Declan's palm settled on the nearest column almost automatically. The wood was old growth, dense and beautifully grained beneath its peeling paint. He traced a section with his thumb, feeling the weight of craftsmanship through the years.
Inside, dust drifted in soft gold shafts through the stillness. The air carried faint notes of wallpaper glue, old timber, and the clean bite of early spring cold sneaking through the cracks.
Declan stepped farther in, boots quiet on the hardwood.
He didn't say anything about it, but the house settled under his presence, like someone had finally walked in who understood its language.
They moved toward the staircase.
Halfway up, Declan stopped dead.
The stained-glass window on the landing caught the morning sun in a muted glow.
Three dragonflies danced across the panel, frozen in mid-flight.
Purple wings.
Green wings.
Gold lines spiraling through the leadwork like captured sunlight.
Even buried under dust, the colors felt alive.
Declan stepped closer.
He didn't touch the glass, but his hand hovered near it, drawn despite himself.
A memory stirred.
Soft.
Unexpected.
Sharp as breath on cold air.
His grandmother's voice.
Her fingers on a green dragonfly panel his grandfather once restored.
Her laugh as light passed through the glass and warmed her hands.
The bruise beneath his shirt warmed again, subtle but certain, like it remembered something too.
Mason let out a low, dramatic whistle. "Well, look at that. Nature meets Victorian drama. This is art. This is elegance. This is… a window I will absolutely break if you make me carry lumber past it."
Declan didn't respond.
"Magnificent, huh?" Mason said.
"Yeah." Declan's voice was quiet.
"Think you can fix it?"
"I will fix it."
Mason grinned. "I told the clients you would say that. You are basically the Gandalf of antique glass. Except significantly more attractive and less… beardy."
Declan shot him a look that should have killed him on the spot.
Mason pretended to cough. "Right. Jokes later. Possibly much later."
Declan stepped back from the stained glass, his jaw tightening, the familiar weight of memory and something else settling into his chest.
He didn't understand why the colors hit him like that.
But he didn't linger long enough to question it.
"Let's move," he said and headed up the remaining stairs.
He did not look back at the window.
It didn't matter.
The shape of the dragonflies stayed with him anyway.