The Kane family had learned that some stories don’t end—they simply settle into the quiet rhythm of a life well-lived.

It was a soft spring day in Evergreen Hollow, the kind where the pond reflected a sky so clear it felt infinite, and the backyard rink boards stood stacked in the garage, waiting for winter like an old friend.

Rowan Kane was eighty-five now.

The Parkinson’s had progressed slowly but steadily—tremors more pronounced, steps careful, voice softer. He ...