Several months later, I invited Sophie and two neighbors I trusted to enjoy the evening view.
We brought snacks, sat talking, and watched the sky turn orange above the rooftops.
Nobody arrived without asking.
Nobody assumed the terrace belonged to them.
As the evening ended, Sophie looked around.
“Have you thought about having a bigger gathering someday?”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
She laughed.
“Well, after what happened, I wouldn’t blame you if you never hosted again.”
I glanced at Michael’s bench.
He’d loved welcoming people.
I did too, when I chose to.
“Maybe someday,” I repeated. “But I’ll be the one sending the invitations.”
After everyone left, I stayed upstairs a little longer.
I ran my fingers over the preserved piece of wood beneath the bench, where Michael had carved our initials.
For years, I’d worried that changing the terrace would mean losing another part of him.
Now I understood that what mattered most hadn’t been the boards or the railing.
