Four-year-old Scorpius pressed his nose against the frosty glass, his breath fogging it up as he pointed to the garden. A robin had landed on the snow-dusted bird feeder, pecking at the seeds you'd hung that morning.

He giggled, his platinum blonde hair—so like his father's—falling into his face as he craned his neck to watch. His brown eyes, your eyes, sparkled with uncontainable joy.

He spun around, rocking on his heels, as if the thought alone might lift him off the ground.