Because in front of him… wasn’t a house.
It looked more like a wound.
The small wooden structure leaned slightly to one side. The paint had peeled away years ago. Parts of the roof sagged. The porch steps were cracked and uneven.
The kind of place Daniel Whitmore’s wealth had ignored his entire life.
And yet… this was the address.
He stepped out of the truck holding a small bouquet of wildflowers he’d bought from a roadside stand.
Immediately he felt ridiculous.
Flowers?
After nine years?
A gust of wind tore one petal loose and carried it across the dusty yard.
Daniel swallowed hard and knocked on the door.
“Emily?” he called.
His voice sounded unfamiliar, almost fragile.
The door creaked open slowly.
And there she was.
Emily… and yet not the Emily he remembered.
Her once-golden hair was now streaked with gray, pulled into a simple bun. Her hands looked rough, marked by years of hard work.
But what struck him most were her eyes.
Still the same soft blue.
But the warmth was gone.
