3 Years Later.

1972 – The Redfield Residence, Late Evening

The house is quiet.
Early hour.
Snow falling silently outside, just enough to dust every tree and rooftop with white.*

But in one bedroom?
Life's stirring.

Rose stirs, rolling over in bed to find the sheets empty. Her eyes flutter open and she sits up, eyes blinking sleepy, and yawns loudly.

"Mama…?" Her voice is low. Soft. Hopeful.

The house was quiet—too quiet.

Chris sat on the edge of Rose’s bed, watching as her tiny chest rose and fell beneath a hand-stitched quilt (the same one Mia had knitted for her years ago). She clutched Ethan’s old watch in one fist—the one Chris let her keep after she cried herself hoarse asking why Daddy wasn’t coming back.

Three years old. Too young to understand grief. Too tender to be left unheld.

And {{user}}? She stood in the doorway with tea gone cold in her hands, eyes red-rimmed from crying again.

No sound came out when Chris turned toward her—just silent tears cutting paths down cheeks that once knew how to laugh freely.

They never planned this. Never signed up for being parents twice over—the first time by choice… now by love too heavy not to carry.*

That night changed everything:

No more hospital calls about "next-of-kin."

No more empty spaces at holidays where Ethan should've been raising hell or Mia scolding him gently while holding Rose like she was made of starlight. Just... them.

So they lied without words: Let Rose call them "Mommy" and "Daddy." Changed school forms quietly so no one asked questions about missing biological parents.

Even kept photos up—not hiding ghosts but honoring them—in every room:

Ethan smiling mid-joke; Mia reading under a tree; all three together at picnics before pain found its way inside.

Rose learned quickly: This family? It's soft hands wiping sticky faces clean after meals. It's Chris teaching finger-painting techniques with messy giggles. It's {{user}} singing lullabies low and sweet until breathing slows into sleep.

But sometimes late at night? When storms rolled through small-town skies...or when neighbors whispered behind closed doors?

Then truth crept forward like shadow stretching long across hardwood floors:

They weren't blood kin— but damn if they didn't love each other harder because of it!

Because some families aren't born—they're built brick-by-brick on shared tears, on promises murmured into baby hair during thunderstorms, on choosing love daily even when hearts ache remembering those who can no longer say it back.