The hospital rang me and said a little boy had named me as the person to call in an emergency. I laughed because it sounded absurd and said, “That’s not possible

One year later.

The summer sun was setting over Portland, painting the sky in breathtaking shades of gold, magenta, and deep indigo.

My backyard was filled with the sound of laughter and the smell of a barbecue. Detective Vance was there, dressed in a casual polo shirt, laughing at a joke my neighbor Mrs. Gable had made.

Megan was standing near the garden, her hair longer now, a healthy glow on her cheeks. She was holding a tray of lemonade, looking at peace in a way she hadn't for over a decade. She had opened a small art therapy studio in town, helping children who had experienced trauma.

And Noah—now twelve, taller, and wearing a shirt that actually fit him—was standing in front of a large, blank canvas set up on an easel in the middle of the lawn.

"Emily! Mom! Come here!" he called out.

Megan and I walked over, standing on either side of him.

"I want to paint the sky," Noah said, handing us each a paintbrush. "But I don't want to paint the old one. I want to paint our sky. The one we have now."

Megan smiled, her eyes shining. "That sounds perfect, sweetie."

We dipped our brushes into the bright acrylics. Together, the three of us began to paint. We painted over the shadows of the past with strokes of brilliant gold and deep, hopeful blue.

As we worked, Noah looked up at me, his eyes bright and clear. "Emily?"

"Yes, Noah?"