HELENA POV
I woke up to the smell of pancakes.
Not burned. No, the smell is delicious, like everything Silas cooked really. Fully, unapologetically mouthwatering.
There was also singing.
Loud singing.
Off-key singing.
And the unmistakable deep rumble of Silas attempting to harmonize with two three-year-olds who believed volume could fix pitch.
“For she’s our sunshine, she’s our sunshine—”
“That’s not how it goes!”
“It is now!”
I did not open my eyes immediately. I lay there under the heavy winter duvet, feeling the warmth pooled around my body, the steady comfort of the mattress beneath me, the soft crackle of the fireplace bleeding up through the vents, and I let myself exist in that suspended space between sleep and wakefulness where nothing has gone wrong yet and nothing needs
