The bell above the restaurant door chimed as Anna pushed it open, its sound light and familiar, like a song only she seemed to hear in full. For her, it was more than a shop bell; it was the sound of her mother’s livelihood, the sound that meant people were coming to be fed, that the Riveras would keep their little world turning for another day.The Hamilton boys trailed behind, reluctant at first—they preferred the open courtyard to the closeness of four walls—but the moment the wave of scents hit them, their hesitation melted. The air inside was rich with the smell of frying oil, garlic browned just to the edge of sweetness, peppers searing sharp, onions softening into gold. The mixture curled in their nostrils, tightened their stomachs, and made them swallow hard.Mrs. Rivera stood behind the counter, a towel slung over one shoulder, her arms bare and glistening from the stove. She moved quickly, efficiently—stirring a pot with one hand, reaching for a stack of plates with the othe

The swing dropped and caught itself—metal shrieking, chain jolting—then slowed in a series of uneasy arcs. Anna’s scream thinned into a laugh before it ran out of breath. For a heartbeat, the whole courtyard listened: the laundry lines snapped like tongues, a dog barked twice and went quiet, and the evening kept it's secret.Chase was the first to move, hands on the swing’s chains, steadying them with a breathless grin. “See? Flying. Told you.”Anna slid off, legs wobbling, then planted her feet harder than she needed to. Her cheeks were bright; her eyes were brighter. “Higher next time,” she said, even though the last of the swing’s shaking traveled through her knees.Jay stood a few paces away, jaw tight. “There is no next time,” he said. “Enough.”Chase rolled his eyes. “You’re not Dad.”Jay’s gaze flicked, uninvited, toward the corner of the apartment where ink-stiff boots and an oil-smelling coat sat like a shrine to absence. “Someone has to be,” he said, softer now, because even