I touched the mark.
"This isn't Daddy's chair."
Her eyes widened.
"It's yours."
She looked confused.
"Daddy helped make it happen, but he made it for you to use."
I pointed toward the scratch.
"What happened?"
"I went around the picnic table by myself."
"Did you get around it?"
"Yes."
"Then that scratch means the chair went somewhere."
Maisie studied it.
"Can Hammer fix it?"
"Probably."
I paused.
"Do you want him to?"
She thought for a long time.
"No."
"Why not?"
"It went somewhere."
I smiled. The scratch remained. By winter, there were three more. One from the library doorway.
One from a friend's porch. One from an incident involving a soccer ball that nobody fully explained. The chair became less like a monument and more like what Daniel wanted: equipment that belonged to an active child. Christmas was our first without him.
People warned me it would be hard as though I might not have noticed the calendar. It was hard.
The empty chair at the dining table felt physical. I cried while hanging the ornament Daniel bought the previous year. Maisie cried because she remembered he always hid one present badly and pretended to be surprised when she found it. Michael came over Christmas morning.
Ray did not. That was right. Ray was part of our life now, but he was not a replacement for family traditions or for Daniel. Learning that distinction allowed me to trust him without making him carry a role nobody could fill.
At noon, someone knocked on the door. Three knocks. For one irrational second, my body returned to the birthday hall, to black wood and fear. I opened the door.
Lena stood there holding a cardboard box.
"Hammer says he is not responsible for holiday feelings."
Inside was a small 3D-printed ornament shaped like a purple wheelchair wheel with silver stars. On the back:
FORWARD.