I snorted. “Tell her superheroes don’t need reading glasses.”
He almost smiled.
I didn’t.
But something in the room loosened anyway.
After twenty minutes, I heard it.
A faint crackle.
A change in the pipe’s tone.
Then—there it was—the soft rush of water moving again.
Liam let out a breath like he’d been holding it since last night.
“You did it,” he whispered.
“No,” I said. “We did it.”
The words surprised me even as they left my mouth.
Liam’s eyes flicked up.
I looked away.
Sophie leaned closer over the hatch. “Is it warm now?”
“Getting there,” I said.
She nodded solemnly like she was in charge of weather.
Then she asked the question that hit harder than any comment section.
“Why do you have a fence?”
I froze.
So did Liam.
And in that moment, I realized something: kids don’t ask the questions adults avoid because they’re polite.
Kids ask because they want the truth.
Liam started, “Well, sweetie, people—”
I cut him off without meaning to.
“Because I was mad,” I said.
Sophie blinked.
I kept going, because if I stopped now, I’d never say it.
“Because I thought your dad didn’t respect me,” I said. “And because I didn’t respect him back.”
Liam’s mouth tightened like he’d been punched.
Sophie looked between us. “But you helped.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Because being mad doesn’t mean you let someone freeze.”
She considered that like it was a puzzle.
Then she nodded once.
“Okay,” she said, satisfied.
Like that was all she needed.
And it made me feel both relieved and ashamed.
Because she’d accepted what we couldn’t: people can be complicated and still do the right thing.
Upstairs, a notification pinged.
Liam flinched.
I looked at him. “You expecting more visitors?”
He swallowed. “I’ve gotten messages from people I don’t know. Some are kind. Some are… not.”
“Same,” I said.
He looked down. “I didn’t mean to drag you into it.”
I shrugged. “You didn’t. The internet did.”
Then I added, quieter, “But you gave it the match.”
He nodded slowly, accepting that like a deserved bruise.
We climbed back up. My knees screamed. I ignored them.
Liam hovered by the counter like he wanted to offer coffee again but was afraid I’d bite his head off.
Sophie slid off her chair and padded toward me, rabbit in hand.
She stopped a foot away.
Held up the rabbit again.
“You can hold him,” she said.
I looked at Liam.
He looked at Sophie, then at me.
“Only if you want,” he said softly.
I didn’t want.
And also—I did.
I took the rabbit like it was a fragile piece of glass.
It was worn. Soft. One ear slightly bent.
Sophie watched my hands like she was measuring whether I was safe.
I held the rabbit for two seconds.
Then I handed it back carefully.
“Good rabbit,” I repeated.
Her face relaxed into a small smile.
And something in my chest did a small, painful shift.
Like a rusted bolt turning for the first time in years.
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