The first morning Grey woke up and stepped out to work, the October air was like a slap in the face, but in a good way. It was cold and crisp, and it woke him up more than his usual cup of coffee. He took a deep breath, feeling it fill his lungs, and realized it had been ages since he'd felt that alive. His leg was acting up, with that old war souvenir ache from the shrapnel, but it was a familiar kind of pain, like an old friend that didn't bother him anymore.
Emma was watching him through the kitchen window, her tiny face all squished against the glass as he tossed out chicken feed. The birds were skittish at first, but Grey had this way of talking to them that calmed them down, even though it wasn't really words—more like soothing sounds. It was like they knew he was okay.
The work felt good. It took him back to when he was a kid, visiting his uncle's farm, and everyone was still happy to see each other. His hands remembered the rhythm of it, the way they used to back when life was simpler and family holidays weren't a sad mess.
By the time noon rolled around, Grey was drenched in sweat, even though it was chilly out. But it was the good kind of tired, the kind you get from doing something real instead of just trying to get through the day. And it was a change from the tiredness that had been his constant companion since he got back—that bone-deep exhaustion that came from just trying to keep his head above water.
Mara showed up with lunch—just a sandwich and some water, but it tasted like a five-star meal after all that work. They sat on the porch steps, eating in silence, and it was nice. Then Emma comes out, all serious, and says, "Uncle Grey."
Grey had to set her straight, gently. "I'm not your uncle, Em. I'm your cousin. Your mom's cousin."
Emma took a moment to chew on that, looking like she was trying to figure out the meaning of life. Then she says, "Cousin Grey," and goes back to her sandwich like it's no big deal. But to Grey, it felt huge. Like he was part of something again, not just a sad story everyone talked about in whispers.
Mara told him Emma had never really had family around. Just her and Mara, with no dad and a grandma who had checked out early. It was kind of a big deal to Grey, to be someone Emma could count on, even if it was just to feed the chickens or play hide and seek.
Later, when Dr. Ortiz came for her weekly chat, she found Grey at the kitchen table, doodling away in a notebook. He wasn't exactly Picasso, but it helped keep his head in the here and now. She talked about how important it was to find ways to stay present, and Grey opened up about his nightmares, the bad ones from the war and the newer ones about being lost in a grey, silent forest.
The doc asked him if he ever thought about giving up, and Grey told her that he used to, back when he was stuck in the hospital with nothing but pain and dark thoughts. But now? Now he had chickens to feed, a fence to mend, and a little girl who treated him like family. It wasn't happiness, not yet, but it was something. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for the moment.