“They’re sheltered.”
“And the shutters?”
“Secure.”
Clara scrambled to her feet.
“Papa, the thunder is loud.”
He removed his coat and crouched beside her.
“I know.”
“Can you stay until it stops?”
“I can.”
Clara reached for him, and he lifted her into his arms.
Ruth watched them, warmth spreading through her chest. The sight still moved her: Jonah, who had once seemed unable to speak of his grief, now holding his daughter without hesitation, listening as she explained her fear.
He looked across the room at Ruth.
“Would you like some tea?”
She smiled.
“Yes, please.”
He carried Clara to the sofa and sat beside Ruth. The little girl settled between them, wrapped in the blanket, while the storm continued outside.
For a long time, they sat together.
Then Clara yawned and leaned against Jonah’s shoulder.
“Will you tell me a story about Mama?”
Jonah glanced at Ruth.
She nodded gently.
He looked down at his daughter.
“Your mother loved storms,” he began. “Not the loud ones, perhaps, but the rain afterward. She used to say the world smelled clean when the storm passed.”
Clara listened.
“She would stand by the kitchen window and watch the water run down the glass. Sometimes she would sing.”
“Can you sing her song?”
Jonah hesitated.
Ruth reached for his hand.
“You can,” she whispered.
He drew a breath and began a soft, uncertain melody. His voice was low and rough, but the tune was gentle. Clara rested her head against him, listening.
Ruth felt tears gather in her eyes, though she did not wipe them away.
When the song ended, Clara looked up.
“Can Ruth sing it, too?”
Jonah glanced at his wife.
“Would you like to?”
Ruth nodded.
She joined him on the next verse, her voice clear and warm. The melody filled the room, weaving through the rain and thunder. Clara listened with a small smile, her eyes growing heavy.
When the storm finally passed, the house seemed brighter, though the evening had deepened into darkness. Jonah carried Clara upstairs and tucked her into bed. Ruth followed, carrying the lamp.
Clara was nearly asleep when she reached for Ruth’s hand.
“Will you sing the song tomorrow?”
“If you like.”
“And the day after?”
“Yes.”