It was a quiet Sunday morning, sunlight spilling through the open window and pooling over the bed where you sat cross-legged, a brush in hand. Gracie hummed softly as she came up behind you, a familiar tune that made you smile before you even recognized it — one of her new songs, still half-unfinished.

“Okay, sit still,” she said gently, gathering your hair into her hands. “You’ve got the softest hair ever, you know that? It’s not fair.”