Chapter 8 - First CryAt four in the morning, as the eye of the storm passed over Cape Haven and a miraculous, eerie silence settled over the marshes, a new sound cut through the saltbox house.
It was thin, sharp, and fierce—a furious assertion of life.
"A girl," Martha breathed, her hands steady and gentle as she cleaned the child and laid her immediately against Amy’s bare, exhausted chest. "A little girl with lungs like a sea gull and hair as golden as summer wheat."
Amy looked down through tears that finally fell without shame. The baby was tiny, perfect, her skin flushed rose-red, her small fingers clutching desperately at Amy's thumb. In that single, breathtaking instant, every ounce of sorrow Amy had carried for three years evaporated like morning dew under a July sun.
"Clara," Amy whispered, kissing the wet down of the baby's forehead. "No... Grace. Her name is Grace."
Caleb stood in the doorway, a mug of hot chicory coffee in his hand, his eyes shining in the lantern glow. He stepped forward quietly, placing a small carved wooden sparrow on the nightstand—a traditional coastal gift of safe passage.
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"Welcome to Cape Haven, Grace," Caleb said softly.
Outside, dawn broke through the clouds, painting the shattered pine trees and flooded marshes in brilliant shades of rose, gold, and violet. The world was battered, half-drowned, and chaotic, but inside that small upstairs room, there was an absolute, invulnerable peace.
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