The back porch door stood wide open, a warm breeze carrying the scent of fresh hay and wildflowers inside.

On the worn linoleum floor, eighteen-month-old hands patted the ground, tiny fingers gripping the threshold.

The screen door swayed gently, unhooked. Unlatched. Forgotten.

Behind her, from deep inside the house, came the low rumble of Granpa Jon’s voice, then Clark’s answering laugh.

A wooden spoon clattered against a pot. Grandma Martha humming.

No one noticed the small shape wobbling to its feet.

Outside, the world stretched wide and green and full of noise. The lowing of cattle. The cluck of chickens. The whisper of corn stalks swaying in the field.

A single, chubby hand reached for the screen door.

It creaked open.