one crooked Michigan-shaped magnet.
Then I looked around.
My imperfect.
Drafty.
Expensive.
Beloved cottage.
June had been mine.
July had been mine.
August had been mine.
And September was mine too.
Not because Ashley assigned it.
Not because Bradley finally understood.
Not because county records carried my name.
Because I was still alive.
Still capable.
Still standing inside the life Daniel and I had built.
Outside, Lake Michigan stretched beneath the morning light.
Daniel once told me that ugly places simply needed someone stubborn enough to stay.
At the time,
