One August morning, Emma stood above the valley while purple heather spread across the hills.
A new beekeeper beside her asked why Black Mountain had such strict rules.
Emma thought about Gavin.
About the restaurant.
The photographs.
The fire.
The court.
Then she thought about her grandfather’s hives, Claire’s ridiculous jar, Noah crying at the kitchen table, Daniel running under the ash tree, her mother stealing rent money through a freezer.
“Because trust is expensive,” she said.
The beekeeper frowned.
“You mean the tests?”
“No.”
Emma smiled.
“I mean once people lose trust, money is the cheapest part of getting it back.”
Below them, thousands of bees crossed the sunlight.
They belonged to nobody.
They returned because the hive was worth returning to.