They didn't speak about it that night. Or the next day. Leo fixed the tractor. He mended the fence. He ate his mother's pot roast in silence. He felt the town watching from behind lace curtains. At The Haven, there would have been a potluck, a hug, a chorus of "we see you." Here, there was only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the ghost of a girl named Leslie.

"Son," she whispered. It came out cracked, like a dry riverbed finally receiving rain. "I have a son."

For five years, Leo became more himself. His voice dropped. His shoulders broadened. He grew a scraggly beard he was absurdly proud of. He went by Leo—short for Leonidas, a name he chose because it meant "lion." He felt fierce. He felt seen.

Then Eleanor called. Her voice, once so crisp, sounded thin. "The scarecrow fell down," she said. "And I can't… I can't fix it myself anymore."

Not flannel.

Jun sent a GIF of a dancing cat.