I reach to place the ring on the small table near the chair, knocking the cushion off-center as I do. A small, white envelope with my name on it peeks out from behind the daisy.

I sit on the chair and pull open the envelope. It’s a greeting card, illustrated with a picture of a cabin nestled among pine trees, a swing on its porch. My heart squeezes at the memory of sitting on just such a swing, on just such a porch, at just such a cabin, drinking hot chocolate under a warm blanket with Byron.

I open it tentatively, unsure whether I want it to be from Byron or not.

Happy memories. Be happy. B

I’m flooded with senses of loss and comfort at the same time. Byron must have snuck in here at some point this afternoon and hidden the card behind the cushion. I can’t help but smile at the thought of him in here—risking being seen because he wanted me to have this card. From him. It makes the place feel more like home.

That’s what it is now.

I work quickly, putting my toiletries in the bathroom and the few items of clothes I have in the drawers and the closet. I’m about done when there’s a knock on my door. I snatch the card from where I’ve put it on the windowsill and slide it under the pillow on my bed before I take the four steps to the door and open it.

“Hi!” Eden squeals. “We’re neighbors. Come see.”

Eden’s room is set up just like mine. Only the view out of the window is different—a slightly different stretch of knoll, and different tree trunks beyond.

“Aren’t they nice rooms?” Eden asks.

“Really nice,” I say. “Cozy.”

“Have you seen the kitchen?”

Before I can answer, she pulls me out of the bedroom and leads me down the corridor to a room at the end. It’s larger than I expected, and includes a pine table under the window and six chairs. “Six of us share the kitchen. There are two refrigerators though, and we have a cupboard each, along with shared pots and pans. Only one dishwasher.”

“I’ll take it,” I say.

The blinds at the window are covered in pictures of daisies. The cabinets and counters are bright white.

“Should we have a cooking schedule?” she asks. “So one of us cooks every six nights?”

I wince. “I think that might get complicated. Maybe you and I could cook for each other once a week and the rest of the time we figure it out as we go?”