They gathered in the cozy living room. The space felt lived-in and warm, filled with worn-in furniture that hugged the body and a subtle scent of lavender drifting from somewhere unseen.
Photos covered the walls—smiling faces, graduation caps, birthday cakes. The kind of memories that built a home. Julie and Jessica were still in the kitchen, their laughter faint but steady in the background.
Then came the creak of a door.
An older man stepped out slowly from the hallway. He moved with measured care, but his posture remained straight, his presence quietly commanding.
Harold Moore was sixty-six, a retired carpenter with the frame of a man who had once carried beams on his shoulders and crafted homes with bare hands.
Time and illness had thinned him, but nothing could take away the strength etched into his broad shoulders or the dignity in how he carried himself.
