Back in the attic, the machine sputtered and died, its glow fading to darkness. Amaira clung to Tylor, her small body trembling, but alive. Kayla stood beside them, her presence a quiet strength. They didn't speak of his father. The police would come later, but for now, Tylor focused on Amaira's warmth, her soft breaths a miracle he'd stopped believing in.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, where Amaira sat coloring, her crayons vibrant against the paper. Tylor watched her, his heart full but scarred. A knock at the door broke his thoughts. Kayla stood there, her denim jacket slung over one shoulder, her eyes nervous but warm.
"Tylor," she said, stepping inside, her voice soft. "I need to tell you something. I've liked you since the day I moved here. Not just as a friend. Like… really liked you."
Tylor's breath caught, his cheeks flushing. "Kayla, I… I like you too. A lot."
She stepped closer, her smile shy but radiant. Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss, the world narrowing to just them—the scent of her lavender shampoo, the warmth of her breath. Amaira giggled from the table, breaking the moment, and Tylor laughed, a sound he thought he'd forgotten.
They weren't whole, not yet. The scars of loss and betrayal lingered. But with Amaira's laughter filling the house and Kayla's hand in his, Tylor felt something new: a chance to heal, to build a family from the ashes of the past. They'd face the future together, one uncertain, hopeful step at a time.