To Elena, the figures were overwhelming.
To him, they were doable.
The real issue wasn’t money.
It was whether he was willing to let disorder enter his carefully structured life.

Upstairs was a guest room he rarely stepped into — a space he had once imagined as a nursery. It had stayed empty for years.
He stood in the doorway and imagined a crib. Toys scattered across the floor. Noise.
Life.
On Sunday morning, he called her.
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