The silence following Ethan’s three words was heavier than the winter cold settling outside the windows of the Old Mill estate.

One year later.

On a peaceful, sun-drenched hillside overlooking the shores of Lake Michigan, a small, modern house made of cedar wood and glass sat surrounded by wild lavender, rose bushes, and tall oak trees.

There were no cold spots. There were no hidden cavities. The house was built entirely on a solid, open slab of natural granite, filled with massive windows that let the sunlight flood every room from morning until dusk.

It was a Saturday afternoon.

In the backyard, two-year-old Ethan was running across the grass, chasing a golden retriever puppy that Alistair McGregor’s family had gifted them for his birthday. His laughter carried across the meadow, bright, free, and full of life.

On the wooden deck, Sarah sat in a rocking chair, holding a new baby girl—three-month-old Eleanor—against her chest, nursing her gently under the shade of a white canvas umbrella.

David walked out from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of iced lemonade. He handed one to Sarah, then sat on the edge of the deck, resting his arm against her knee.

"How is she?" David asked softly, looking at his newborn daughter.

"Asleep," Sarah smiled, her face radiant with health and peace. She looked out at the lawn where Ethan was rolling on the grass with the puppy, his face covered in sunbeams.

David took Sarah's hand, holding it tight, feeling the warm, strong pulse in her wrist—a heartbeat that belonged to the world, to her children, and to him.

"You know," Sarah murmured, leaning her head against David's shoulder as the summer breeze rustled through the lavender, "sometimes I still listen to the walls."

David turned his head, looking at her with gentle curiosity. "And what do you hear?"