I opened the door to my apartment.

Ethan looked up from the kitchen counter, a wooden spoon in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, offering a small, genuine smile.

“Hey,” I replied, setting my briefcase down by the door.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Good,” I said, hanging up my coat. “It was a good day.”

I walked into the kitchen and stood beside him, watching the steam rise from the pot on the stove.

The warmth of the room gathered around us, quiet and complete.

We had survived the storm, and we were here.

And that, in the end, was all we could have asked for.

I took a plate from the cabinet and began to set the table for two.

We ate in the quiet light of the kitchen, talking of small things, the long shadow of the courtroom finally fading behind us.

The truth had been expensive, but as I looked at my brother, I knew we had bought our freedom.

We had chosen not to hide, and that was a foundation we could actually build upon.