Healing Her Heart

The cottage smelled of lavender and dust, the way her grandmother's hands had smelled at the end. She set her bag down on the kitchen table and, for the first time in two years, allowed herself to cry without apology.

He had a way of standing still when she spoke, as if her words were a small animal he did not want to frighten. No one had listened to her like that in a very long time.

"You don't have to be all the way okay," he said. "You just have to be a little bit braver than you were yesterday. I can wait for the rest."