At my 6-year-old granddaughter's funeral, I leaned over her casket to say a final goodbye. Then I heard a faint, desperate scrape from inside. "Daddy said if I woke up, I would ruin everything," she whispered. I froze. My son and his wife had told everyone she died from a sudden contagion. I pried the lid open. As I lifted my breathing grandchild, heavy footsteps rushed down the stairs...

One year after that dark night, the summer sun shone warmly across the patio of our cottage in Galena.

Chloe was sitting at the wooden picnic table, her cheeks flushed with healthy pink color and her golden-brown curls bouncing as she happily scooped homemade strawberry ice cream into her mouth. She wore a bright yellow summer dress with daisies embroidered along the collar.

A soft breeze rustled the willow leaves above us, carrying the sweet scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass.

"Grandma?" Chloe called out, holding up her spoon.

"Yes, my sweet girl?" I asked, sitting down beside her and gently wiping a dab of ice cream from her chin.

"Do you know what my favorite thing about our house is?"

"What is it, Chloe?"

She smiled—a wide, bright, gap-toothed smile that lit up the entire world.

"The windows," she said softly, pointing to the sunbeams dancing across the porch floor. "There are windows in every room, and the sun always finds us."

I pulled her small, warm body into my arms, burying my face in her sweet hair, feeling the steady, miraculous thump of her healthy heart beating against mine.

The darkness had tried to swallow us whole, but love had pried open the lid, broken the locks, and led us back into the light.