There was a letter on the table.
Unopened.
Thick paper. Childish handwriting on the front. "To Mr. Vale" in pencil, the M smudged like someone had erased it twice before getting it right.
Lennox stared at it like it might shatter if he breathed wrong.
"She wrote it after the last foster placement," the social worker had told him. "She wanted to say thank you. Even though she hadn't met you yet."
It had been four days since that envelope arrived.
He hadn't touched it.
Isla found it when she came by with a paper bag of muffins and a new candle from Viola's shop-honeysuckle and rain, something she said felt like "hope dressed in sweatpants."
"You haven't opened it," she said quietly, setting the candle on the windowsill.
Lennox didn't look at her. "I can't."
"Why?"
He was silent a long moment.
"Because what if she loves me already?" he said. "What if she expects me to be someone I'm not?"
Isla stepped beside him. "You're already someone she believes in. You're the man she wrote to."
He looked down at the envelope again.
"She's a kid. She believes in magic."
"You are magic," Isla said softly. "You make things appear on walls that weren't there before. You pull people back from the edge with nothing but a brush and a stare that says, 'I see you.' That's not nothing, Lennox."
His hands were shaking when he picked up the envelope.
Isla didn't speak. Didn't push.
She just stood beside him. Not guiding. Not holding. Just present.
He opened it.
The paper was pale pink, torn from a notebook. A fox sticker in the corner. Crayon drawings along the sides-stick figures, a rainbow, a crooked star.
In the middle, the words:
Dear Mr. Vale,
My name is Juniper. I'm 5.
I like lemon cake and foxes and swimming but not the deep end.
Miss Clara said you were my mommy's brother. That's like a half-dad, right?
I hope you are nice. If you're not nice it's okay, but please don't give my fox to Goodwill.
I'm a little bit brave. I can wait.
Lennox didn't speak.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then folded it gently.
"She's not just a kid," he said quietly. "She's a mirror."
Isla stepped closer.
He didn't look at her. But his voice was steadier now.
"She's asking for something I don't know how to give. Not fully. Not yet."
"You'll learn," Isla said.
"I'm scared."
"Good," she replied. "So is everyone who tries. If you weren't, I'd worry."
He finally looked at her. And there-in his eyes-was something different.
Not panic.
Not performance.
But willingness.
---
That night, Lennox brought out a new canvas.
Bigger than the others.
And he sketched slowly-deliberately.
Not Isla.
Not the girl in the mural.
Not his sister.
This time, it was Juniper.
Not as she was in the photo. But how he imagined her now.
Hair wild. Fox under one arm. A paper crown on her head. Her feet bare. Her smile crooked.
And beside her?
A man.
Not clearly drawn.
But reaching for her hand.
Isla watched from the far end of the room, heart a little louder than before.
When he finally looked up, he said:
"She wrote, I can wait."
Then, after a pause:
"But maybe she doesn't have to wait alone."