Page 48 of Remain

19

Savannah

Six Months Later

I come backto Pineview on purpose. Not rushed. Not wrecked. Not carrying grief like a suitcase I never learned how to unpack. I take the earlier flight, the one that lands while the sun is still up, and drive the familiar road in with the windows cracked, letting the warm June air remind me exactly where I am. I haven’t been here in the summer in so long I can’t even remember the last time.

This time, it feels like arriving instead of returning.

The community center is already alive when I pull into the lot. Cars line the curb, someone is unloading boxes from the back of a pickup, and laughter spills through the open doors, layered with the scrape of chairs and the low hum ofconversation. It looks the way my childhood memories always did, and the way the photographs from the years I missed showed it too with people showing up without being asked, just because this is where they’re meant to be.

Inside, the long tables are covered in lists and bins and stacks of neatly sorted donations. My cousin Lucy waves me over from one corner, her ponytail bouncing as she tapes a label onto a box. “Don’t ask. Mrs. Kincaid put me in charge of markers and now I feel powerful.”

I laugh, surprised at how easy it feels.

Aunt Carol is near the back, sleeves rolled up, directing traffic with a confidence that suggests she’s been doing this her whole life, which, she has. My grandmother sits nearby with two other women from church, sorting gloves into careful pairs, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

There by the doorway, leaning on her cane, sharp-eyed and very much in charge of her corner of the world, is Mrs. Levin.

Ruth. My Ruth.

She catches sight of me and lifts her chin, a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Well,” she cups my face with one hand when I reach her, her voice dry and warm. “Look who finally decided to stop running.”

“Ruth,” I smile back. “You make it sound so flattering.”

She reaches out and squeezes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Your mother used to say you’d find your way back when you were ready to do something with it.”

“With what?” I ask softly.

She gestures around the room. “All of this.”

Erik appears at my side like he never left. He’s got a clipboard tucked under his arm, his jacket shrugged off, sleevespushed up. He looks at ease in this space in a way that used to scare me.

Now it steadies me.

“You ready, darling?”

I nod. “Let’s do it.”

We gather everyone’s attention and talk it through. I explain the plan slowly and clearly, without grand visions or sweeping promises, just intention. A digital intake so families never have to explain themselves twice. Donor privacy. A quiet expansion into nearby towns, guided by the same rules and the same heart.

Erik steps in without missing a beat, covering logistics with an ease that comes from long familiarity. Delivery routes. Volunteers. Storage. He doesn’t look to me for approval, and he doesn’t need to. We’re building this side by side, working in tandem, not one of us leading from above but both of us moving forward together.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Okay but WHY am I getting emails about something called The Christmas Kindness Drive and why am I crying at my desk?

I bite back a smile and text her a picture of the community center, full and humming.

Legacy project. Long story. I’ll explain.

Proud of you. Also tell Pineview I love them.

I tuck my phone away and take in the room again.

This is what my mother meant. Not the toys, and not the season, but the way people show up when they’re given the chance.