“You don’t repay a gift of life, Marcus; you simply pass the grace forward,” Thomas replied. “Daniel lived, and now his memory ensures that you and Maya can truly live as well.”
Over the next three days, Maya and I explored the shores of Wrightsville Beach. We collected sea glass, built sandcastles, and watched fishing boats return at dusk.
My leg hurt less each day, as if emotional relief had eased my body. I leaned less on my wooden cane.
On our final afternoon, Thomas drove us to a quiet live-oak neighborhood two miles from the beach.
He stopped before a single-story brick cottage with a porch, fenced yard, hydrangeas, and stone walkway.
“Whose house is this, Captain Thomas?” Maya asked, pressing her face against the truck window to admire the bright blue front door and white rocking chairs on the porch.
Thomas turned in his seat, smiling. He pulled a brass ring with two keys from his pocket.
