Page 93 of Smoke Signals

The next two weeks pass in a blur of boxes and too many trips up and down stairs.

The apartment looks smaller once we start packing it. Alaska’s room empties slowly; first the books, extra clothes, then the toys she forgets she has until I pull them out from under the bed, the couch, or the bottom of the closet. She sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor and sorts everything into careful piles while Stellan kneels beside her taping boxes shut.

The first time he writes ALASKA’S ROOM on one with a thick black marker, my throat tightens.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head once and keep folding clothes.

Nothing…Everything.

I've still got clients on the schedule before I shut the studio down for good, so a few hours later I'm standing in the treatment room pretending my life isn't currently packed into half a dozen cardboard boxes.

Brielle squints at me from the massage table and says, "You have that weird glowy thing happening."

“I hate when you say words like glowy.”

She smirks. “You’re in love with him.”

I laugh, but don't answer her, and she lets me get away with it.

The Saturday before we leave, half the firehouse turns up to haul the big stuff, and my living room turns into controlled chaos.

Phoenix carries the couch like it weighs nothing, AJ keeps offering opinions no one asked for, Jake steals my good pens from the kitchen drawer and denies it to my face, and Dark just stands in the middle of the room looking solid and mildly unimpressed while somehow doing the most actual work.

By the time the last box goes into the truck, the apartment echoes.

I stand in the doorway with Alaska by my side and stare at the place that held us together through the worst year of my life.

“You okay?” Stellan asks quietly from behind me.

I lean back into him for one second and let myself feel it.

“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”

The new house changes fast once our things start filling it.

Alaska’s room comes first. Her blanket spread over the bed, books lined up on the low shelf, and fox on the pillow like a tiny guard on duty. She runs in circles around the room the first night and finally collapses in the middle of the rug, laughing so hard she hiccups.

The kitchen changes next. My favorite mugs on the second shelf, and Alaska’s cups lined up near the sink. The refrigerator is covered with school papers and a drawing Alaska made of the three of us standing in front of a square house with a huge yellow sun above it.

Stellan frames that one and hangs it in the hall before I can stop him.

The living room becomes ours in smaller ways. My blankets on the couch, his boots by the door, and Alaska’s dolls under the coffee table.

We build routines without meaning to.

I wake first most mornings and start coffee. Stellan comes down ten minutes later, hair a mess, shirt half on, and steals my first sip every single time. Alaska follows after that, dragging fox and rubbing sleep from her eyes, and the three of us end up in the kitchen before the day even properly starts.

After a day of looking for a place to open my studio, I come home to a house that feels lived in. Sometimes Stellan gets there first and dinner is already started. Sometimes I beat him home and Alaska helps me wash vegetables.

At night, after she’s asleep, the house goes quiet in a way that feels safe.

I enroll her in Kindergarten later that week. I've got the folder from Ms. Rodriguez in my bag, the one with the charts I never wanted to read, and I keep waiting for the moment I'll need to hand it over and explain.

The woman behind the desk asks if Alaska has any needs they should know about.

I look over at her. She's standing at the window with both hands flat on the glass, watching the buses line up, entirely unbothered.