"We are," I agree, the words feeling like a promise I finally believe I can keep.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow night?" she asks, her voice lighter now. In this moment, she's not the broken version of herself I've grown used to seeing. She's the woman who used to sing while making pancakes, the one who taught me about strength even when life was crumbling around us.

Pride swells in my chest, warm and unexpected.

A soft laugh escapes me, easing some of the tension that's been hanging in the air like smoke.

"Maybe a little," I admit, lowering my voice as if speaking the fear too loudly might make it more real. "Okay, maybe more than a little. It's been a long time since I've played, let alone played for a room full of people."

Her hand finds mine, warm and steady—an anchor I didn't know I was searching for.

"I'm so proud of you," she says, voice trembling just slightly, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. "For so many things." There's warmth in her words, but also something heavier. "I've made more mistakes than I can count in my life. Some of them haunt me, but if every single one had to happen to bring you and your brother into this world, then I forgive myself for them all. And I think it's time you forgive yourself too, so you can start to embrace every opportunity life gives you."

Forgiveness.

A word that feels too big to hold yet too important to ignore. I've carried guilt like armor, kept it close because being burned so many times has taught me to expect the worst. Maybe because somewhere along the way, I started believing forgiveness was something I didn't deserve. Or maybe because I never thought I was worthy of it in the first place.

But hearing her say it now—seeing the love and sincerity shining in her eyes—something shifts. A crack forms in the walls I've spent years building. Small, but enough to let light seep through.

The morning sun streams through Sonder's windows, painting everything in shades of gold and possibility. The place still carries the crisp scent of fresh paint and polished wood, an electric anticipation humming in the air as final touches are made for tonight's opening.

Nick's already here—probably has been since dawn broke, knowing him. The guy treats sleep like a suggestion rather than a necessity. He's adjusting bar stools with surgical precision, fussing over a vase of flowers like they hold the secret to perfection. But I get it—this place isn't just a business to him, it's a dream given form.

"Morning," I call out, my voice carrying through the quiet space. The mingled scents of wood polish and fresh espresso hang in the air like a held breath before tonight's storm.

Nick looks up from behind the bar, his grin easy but eyes sharp as ever. "Morning."