Chapter 7 - The Midsummer Festival
By July, the neighborhood surrounding Lincoln Park was alive with the annual midsummer street festival. String lights were strung across lampposts, the scent of grilled Italian sausage and roasted corn hung heavy in the humid evening air, and the sound of a local blues band drifted from the bandstand near the lagoon.
Owen and Clara walked hand in hand down the crowded sidewalk, flanked by five very energetic children who were currently debating whether funnel cake constituted a balanced breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“If we let them eat any more sugar,” Owen whispered, looking down at Noah, who was cheerfully holding a massive cloud of blue cotton candy, “they’re going to achieve powered flight.”
Clara laughed, her dark hair catching the golden glow of the festival lights. “Let them fly. We’ve got plenty of room in the sky.”
They stopped near the edge of the grassy common where a local artist had set up an interactive chalkboard for families to write down what they were grateful for this summer. Dozens of brightly colored chalk messages covered the board—wishes for good grades, notes about new puppies, and simple declarations of love.
Maya grabbed a piece of yellow chalk and stretched up on her tiptoes, furiously scribbling something at the bottom corner of the board.
When she stepped back, she grabbed Chloe’s hand and pointed proudly at her work.
Owen and Clara walked over to read it. In wobbly, enthusiastic second-grade handwriting, Maya had written:
We have one big house, two best parents, five kids, and zero secrets left.
Noah grinned up at Owen, his hazel eyes sparkling with a mischief that looked remarkably like Clara’s. “Can we get ice cream now, Dad? Official permission?”
Owen looked at Clara, who raised an eyebrow in mock severity before breaking into a wide smile.
May you like
“Ice cream,” Owen declared, sweeping Noah up onto his shoulders while the four girls cheered and sprinted toward the striped vendor cart across the grass. “Orders from headquarters.”
As they walked through the bustling crowd, the warm summer breeze caught the edge of Owen’s rolled-up sleeve, briefly exposing the ink on his forearm—the broken compass, the steady stem, and the little bird that had finally found its permanent home.
