“No, Uncle Aster,” Jimi corrected him gently. “We’re going to live… for many, many years. And the books will just keep showing up—one every day.”

No one answered. Because right then, sitting on the floor of a house that still felt a little foreign, after everything we had almost lost, this five-year-old child was teaching us something none of us could quite put into words.

“Daddy… you’ll always be with us, right? Even when you’re really old?”

“Of course, my son. ...