Chloe in Willowmere

The morning is quiet and the street is still half-asleep when Chloe finds it — a single marigold sitting on the stone step of Marco's Bakery, its petals still beaded with dew and impossibly warm from some secret hand. Luna watches from her spot beside it with the satisfied air of a cat who has always known more than she lets on. Chloe kneels slowly, lifts the flower, and holds it up to the early light. She turns it over in her fingers, feeling its warmth, half-expecting a note that never comes. 'You're warm,' she says softly. Luna, in a thought bubble: 'Obviously.' She stands with the marigold cradled in her palm, the bakery door open behind her, bread-smell drifting out into the amber morning, and she understands — with the quiet certainty of someone who has stopped running — that belonging doesn't announce itself. It just shows up on your doorstep.