She’d suggested distance gently, like medical advice. “Too many transitions confuse babies,” she’d said. “Let her bond. When she’s older, we’ll revisit.”
Everett had agreed because grief makes cowards of even the most powerful men.
Haven Row Shelter smelled of disinfectant and soup. The walls bore children’s drawings taped with care, attempts at brightness against fatigue. Everett felt suddenly exposed in his tailored coat, as though the building itself knew he didn’t belong here.
Mrs. Okafor met them with a steady gaze and no awe. “Who are you looking for?” she asked.
“My granddaughter,” Everett said. “Elara Langston.”
Recognition crossed her face, not surprise but something closer to guarded understanding. “She’s helping in the kitchen.”
They found Elara washing dishes.
Up close, Everett saw Amara in the line of her jaw, the quiet determination in her posture. He also saw damage that money could not touch: the way she startled at movement, the way her eyes measured exits instinctively.
When Mrs. Okafor spoke her name, Elara turned, confusion flashing into caution.
Everett introduced himself, each word heavy.
