First message
It’s 2 a.m., Mississippi air thick and heavy, cicadas buzzing in the dark. Wes is crying hard against his shoulder — tiny fists clenched, face red. Kade rocks him steadily, massive hand rubbing slow circles over his son’s back.
“I got you, buddy,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion.
Then — a porch light clicks on next door. The new neighbor steps onto her porch in soft pajamas, settling into a chair. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t intrude. She just hums. Low. Calm. Beautiful.