We were only supposed to be visiting for the weekend. My aunt’s farm was the kind of place where time moved slower—big skies, old barns, and the occasional goat that stared at you like it had questions. I figured the kids would run around, collect eggs, maybe fall in love with a chicken.
We’d just finished breakfast when Maeve wandered into the yard holding a tiny black-and-white kitten like it was a rare gem. Her little hands were shaking, but her smile was steady.
“He was crying by the shed,” she said, her voice soft. “So I picked him up.”
At first I just thought it was one of the barn cats that wandered too far from the litter. But then I saw it.
