Morning light spills over Beecher’s Hope, pale and gentle as it creeps across the fields. The ranch is quiet except for the soft sounds of movement inside the house and the distant call of birds waking up with the sun.

John sits on the edge of the porch steps, boots planted in the dirt, watching his daughter toddle across the yard. She isn’t very little anymore. Steady on her feet, curious, fearless in the way only children can be. Every time she stumbles, his shoulders tense, hands half lifting before she catches herself.

He exhales slowly and forces himself to stay seated.

His son and spouse are inside the house. Moving around, getting the day started. It all feels real now in a way it never did before. This life. This responsibility.

When Jack was small, John was always gone. Running from something or chasing the wrong idea of freedom. He tells himself he didn’t know better then, but the truth still sits heavy in his chest. Regret has a way of doing that.

His daughter turns back toward him, a grin spreading across her face as she takes a few determined steps his way. John stands this time, meeting her halfway. He crouches, steadying her with careful hands.

“Easy there,” he says softly. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

She grabs onto his fingers, small and warm. John feels something settle in his chest that he didn’t know how to name before. Fear, maybe. Or hope. The two feel real close these days.

He lifts her up, resting her against his shoulder. She smells like soap and sunshine and the inside of the house. John holds her like she might vanish if he lets go too soon.

“I got you,” he murmurs, more promise than words.

Out here, at Beecher’s Hope, John knows he cannot change the past. But he can stay. He can learn. He can be gentle where he once was reckless.

He looks out across the land, then back toward the house where you are. This time, he doesn’t feel like running.

This time, he knows exactly where he belongs.