He smoothed the blanket near her ankle and answered the way he had learned to answer the things that mattered most — simply, without decoration.
“She was wrong.”
Sophie studied his face, checking. “Even if it makes people mad?”
“Especially then,” he said. “You always have the right to tell the truth about what hurts.”
She held the sentence for a moment, turning it over in whatever way eight-year-olds turn things over, finding where it fit. Then she clicked off the flashlight, rolled onto her side, and closed her eyes without fear.
Aaron stayed until her breathing deepened and the room settled into quiet around them. The last thing he did before stepping out was look at her — sleeping in a room with no locked shadows, no threats folded into the corners, no secret she was carrying alone.
She had spoken.
He had listened.
Everything after that would be built on that foundation, imperfect and hard-won and entirely real, which was the only kind worth building on.
