The dog bowl was still warm from the kitchen when I set it down in front of her. Leftover eggs. Torn pieces of toast. Something that had once been bacon, floating in cold grease.

One year later.

The morning sun washed over the wooden dining table of our harbor house. The smell of fresh coffee, toasted sourdough, and sweet blueberry pancakes filled the kitchen.

Emma sat in her high chair, wearing a bright red dress, giggling as she tried to feed a piece of pancake to our new rescue golden retriever, a goofy puppy named Barnaby.

"No pancakes for the dog, Emma," Lucy laughed, setting down a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me.

"Just a tiny piece?" Emma begged, holding up her small fingers to show how tiny.

"Only if he sits nicely," I said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

I looked out the window at the harbor. Three of my shipping vessels were docked at the pier, their colorful flags fluttering in the crisp autumn breeze. The port was thriving, clean, and run by people who cared about the city, not corrupt politicians looking to line their pockets.

My phone chimed on the table. It was a message from DA Vance:

Arthur Pendelton’s final appeal was rejected this morning. He will remain at Blackwood Penitentiary for life. You can close that book forever, Vittorio.

I locked the phone and placed it face down.

I reached inside my shirt and pulled out the silver chain.

The engagement ring was gone. In its place hung a small, polished silver locket containing a picture of Clara on one side and a picture of Emma on the other.

I snapped the locket shut and let it rest against my chest.

"Daddy, look!" Emma squeaked, pointing to Barnaby, who had successfully swallowed a crumb of toast and was wagging his tail frantically.

"I see it, sweetie," I smiled, sitting down at the table next to her.

Everything in this house was warm. The sun on the floorboards, the smell of butter, the sound of my daughter's unrestrained laughter echoing off the walls.