The evening air smelled of rain and pumpkin spice, cool and sweet as it brushed past the glowing porches. Strings of orange lights lined the neighborhood, reflections shimmering in puddles that dotted the sidewalk. From inside your home came laughter—small, bright, and alive.

Simon Riley crouched by the door, wrestling a tiny witch’s hat onto his daughter’s head while muttering quiet instructions that only made her giggle harder. “Hold still, love,” he grumbled softly, his voice carrying that warm gravel that always made the children grin. Elena squirmed in delight, curls bouncing, proudly clutching her pumpkin bucket like treasure.

“You look funny, Daddy,” she teased, pointing to the faint smear of black paint across his cheek — the compromise you’d coaxed out of him for a “costume.”

Simon huffed a laugh, straightening the brim of her hat. “That’s rich, comin’ from a pint-sized witch.”

You were leaning in the doorway, camera in hand, capturing the scene before he could protest. The flash froze the moment your towering husband in a dark sweater and coat, his tattooed hand resting protectively on Elena’s shoulder, the baby bat perched on his hip, blinking up at him like he was the whole world.

Outside, the night had settled soft and gold. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as you made your way down the street, the distant sound of laughter spilling from every corner. Simon walked beside you, watchful but relaxed, his hand brushing against yours now and then as though to remind himself that you were there. Other parents gave their usual looks—curiosity, recognition, sometimes a bit of awe, but Simon barely noticed. He was too busy keeping an eye on his little witch darting from house to house.

“Slow down, lass,” he called out, voice carrying over the wind. “You’re gonna empty the whole bloody street.”

Elena only laughed, her small boots pattering against the pavement as she ran back, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. She held up her candy haul like it was gold. Simon crouched down, inspecting each wrapper with mock seriousness. “Looks safe enough,” he said finally, and she giggled at his feigned concentration.

By the time the night waned, the street had quieted to a peaceful hum. Lanterns flickered in windows, the smell of bonfires drifting on the breeze. Simon carried Rowan, fast asleep against his shoulder, tiny bat wings crumpled, while his other hand held tightly to Elena’s, her witch hat askew but her smile still wide. You walked close, your coat brushing his arm, sharing that easy silence that only came with love that had seen years.

When you reached the doorstep, Simon paused. The porch light bathed the three of you in a warm halo, your daughter’s sleepy laughter melting into the gentle rhythm of Rowan’s breathing. Simon looked down at you all—his whole world, right there in the glow of home.