Chapter 10 - The House Made of Steel and Cedar
Two years later, the valley was quiet again—but it was a good kind of quiet.
The old converted barn workshop was no longer just a place where I welded cold steel alone in the dark to distract myself from grief. It had transformed into the heart of a home.
Together, using the cedar timber from grandfather’s land and heavy steel beams I forged myself, Hollis and I had built a new wing on the house. It had big glass windows that looked out over the sixty acres of untouched pine forest, letting in the golden morning light.
Hollis was six now, her dark hair long and braided, her green eyes bright with the boundless energy of a happy, well-loved child.
It was a Saturday evening in early summer. The smell of fresh-cut cedar and sweet grass floated through the open windows.
Hollis sat on a sturdy wooden bench in the workshop, her small hands holding a paintbrush as she put the finishing touches on a birdhouse we had built together. Outside, the crickets were beginning their evening song, and the warm sunset painted the ridge in shades of amber and rose.
"Uncle Cass?" she called out, pausing with her brush in the air.
I put down my tape measure and walked over, leaning against the workbench beside her. "Yeah, sweet pea?"
She looked up at me, then pulled a small wooden sign from under the workbench that she had been secretly painting for a week. Written in neat, colorful letters was a single sentence:
OUR HOUSE — MADE OF STEEL, CEDAR, AND LOVE.
"Is this a good spot for it?" she asked, pointing to the main entrance post near the front door.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and dropped to one knee, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
"That is the absolute best spot in the whole world," I told her.
She grinned, leaning her head against my shoulder. She wasn't the terrified, barefoot four-year-old in wet unicorn pajamas who had knocked on my door in the middle of a midnight rainstorm anymore. She was safe, cherished, and deeply rooted in a place where she would never be told there wasn't room for her again.
We walked outside together and hung the sign right next to the porch light—the very light that had guided her through the darkness two years ago.
As the stars began to appear over the mountain ridge, illuminating the peaceful forest Brennan had protected for his daughter, Hollis reached up and took my hand.
May you like
"We have plenty of room now, right Daddy?" she asked softly.
I looked down at my brother’s daughter, holding her hand firmly in mine, and smiled.
