Chapter 8 - THE SAVANNAH SUNRISETwo thousand miles away, the morning air over Savannah, Georgia, smelled of salt marshes, wet pine, and blooming jasmine.
The sun was just beginning to burn off the low mist rolling across the marshlands outside a modest, wrap-around-porch house shaded by ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss.
On the wide wooden porch, two rocking chairs creaked rhythmically in the gentle breeze.
Evelyn sat with a steaming mug of black coffee in her hands, watching the golden light catch the polished brass house numbers on the post: 1424.
The front screen door clicked open, and Daniel walked out carrying a heavy ceramic bowl filled with steaming red rice, roasted chicken, peppers, tomatoes, and spices—cooked exactly to her grandmother’s recipe.
He set the bowl on the small wooden table between their rocking chairs, then pulled up a stool and sat down right beside her knees, resting his elbows on her lap.
"How is it?" Daniel asked, watching her face with a mixture of hope and quiet amusement.
Evelyn took a bite, the rich, familiar flavors of home spreading across her tongue. The warmth of the spices chased away the lingering chill of the Pacific Northwest winter.
She smiled, reaching down to trace the faint scar above his eyebrow where the Seattle rain had washed away a lifetime of violence.
"It tastes like freedom," Evelyn said softly.
May you like
Daniel caught her hand, kissing her knuckles one by one before leaning his forehead against her knee.
"Good," he murmured, closing his eyes as the southern morning washed over them. "Because we're never eating in the kitchen again."
