They were mudding drywall when Ira's phone buzzed.
He ignored it. The rhythm was good—Rowan on the taping, Ira following with the knife, smoothing compound into the seams between sheets. The new walls were going up faster than he'd expected. Another week and they'd be ready for primer.
His phone buzzed again.
"You gonna get that?" Rowan didn't look up from his work.
Ira wiped his hands on his jeans and checked the screen. Two texts from Hagarty.
Stopping by this afternoon to check on progress! So excited to see how it's coming along.
Also wanted to touch base about the dedication. Just a quick chat. Nothing formal.
He stared at the words. They were warm. Encouraging. Exactly the kind of messages a mentor was supposed to send.
His stomach tightened anyway.
"Everything okay?" Rowan asked.
"Hagarty's coming by later."
Rowan's expression didn't change. He tore another strip of tape, pressed it into the seam. "You want me here for that?"
The question was simple. No judgment in it. Just an offer.
"No," Ira said. "I should—it's fine. She just wants to see the progress."
Rowan nodded. Went back to taping.
They worked in silence for a while. The compound was cool against Ira's fingers, smoothing out ridges and bubbles, filling the gaps between one sheet and the next. There was something almost meditative about it. The wall becoming seamless. The joins disappearing.
"You ever feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong?" Ira asked.
Rowan glanced at him. "All the time."
"How do you deal with it?"
"Badly." Rowan shrugged. "But I try not to brace so hard I miss when things go right."
Ira didn't know what to say to that. He turned back to the wall, knife in hand, and kept smoothing.
Miri sat at her desk with her laptop open, cursor blinking in a search bar.
Korean adoption records search.
She'd been staring at those four words for ten minutes.
The call with Ellie had left something loose in her chest. Not resolved—nothing had been resolved—but shifted. Like a door that had been painted shut, now cracked open enough to let air through.
I'm trying to find someone.
She'd said it out loud. To another person. And Ellie hadn't asked who, hadn't pushed for details, hadn't offered advice. She'd just said that sounds hard and let it sit there.
Miri pressed enter.
The results were overwhelming. Adoption registries. Reunion services. DNA testing companies promising to "unlock your heritage." Forums full of stories—some joyful, some devastating, most somewhere in the complicated middle.
She clicked on a link titled Searching for Birth Parents in Korea: What You Need to Know.
The article was clinical. Bureaucratic. It explained the system—how records were kept, which agencies handled what, the role of the Korean government's post-adoption services. It talked about consent.
That word stopped her.
In many cases, birth parents must register with a reunion service or consent to be found before adoptees can access identifying information.
Miri read the sentence twice.
She'd been thinking about this as her search. Her need to know. Her gap to fill. But Park Yuna had a say in this too. Park Yuna might have spent eighteen years building a life that didn't include the daughter she'd held for three days. She might not want to be found.
The article continued: Some birth parents register immediately after relinquishment, hoping to be found someday. Others never register. Some register decades later, when circumstances change. There is no way to know without checking.
Miri sat back in her chair.
She thought about Priya in the car, confessing about the extra-grace-required girl. I made her invisible. Miri had held that guilt without offering absolution. She'd known instinctively that Priya needed to carry it, not have it lifted.
This was different. This was Miri wanting something from someone who hadn't offered it.
She wasn't entitled to Park Yuna's story. She wasn't entitled to contact, to answers, to the narrative that would fill the gap at her center. All she was entitled to was the question itself—and the willingness to accept whatever answer came back.
She clicked on another link. Korea Adoption Services: Birth Family Search Program.
The process was outlined step by step. Submit a request. Provide documentation. The agency would check their records, and if a birth parent had registered for contact, they would facilitate. If not—
If not, the search ended there. Unless Park Yuna had said yes, Miri's need to know didn't override her right to silence.
Miri closed her laptop.
The stone from Lake Aurelia was on her desk. She picked it up, turned it over in her palm. Smooth and gray and unreadable.
She hadn't expected the search to start with someone else's consent. She'd imagined detective work, paper trails, the slow accumulation of facts until a picture emerged. Instead, the first step was asking a question she might never get to ask—and accepting that the answer might be no.
Maybe that was the point.
She put the stone in her pocket and went downstairs.
Hagarty's car pulled into the lot just as Ira was cleaning up.
He watched her through the window—the way she gathered her things, checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed her blouse before stepping out. Everything deliberate. Everything composed.
She looked up at the parsonage and smiled.
"Ira!" She crossed the lot with her arms already opening. "Look at this place. Look at what you've done."
He accepted the hug. Her perfume was the same as always—something floral, something expensive. The familiarity of it made his throat tight.
"It's coming along," he said.
"Coming along? Ira, this is incredible." She stepped back, hands on his shoulders, surveying him like he was part of the renovation. "You should be so proud. The board is thrilled. The donors are thrilled. Everyone is so excited for the dedication."
"Thanks."
She released him and walked toward the porch, heels clicking on the cracked asphalt. He followed.
Inside, she moved through the gutted rooms with the air of someone inspecting a property she owned. Which, in a way, she did. The Ridgeline Project had funded the materials. Her vision had made it possible. His labor was just the execution.
"The framing looks solid," she said, running a hand along a new stud. "Rowan's work?"
Ira nodded.
She didn't mention the warning she'd given at the Freeze. Didn't acknowledge the conversation about Dale's reputation, the shortcuts, the soft numbers. She just ran her fingers along the wood and said, "He does good work. I'll give him that."
It was the closest thing to a retraction she would ever offer. Ira understood that. He was supposed to feel relieved—she'd seen the quality, adjusted her assessment, moved on. Gracious. Reasonable.
But all he could think about was Rowan's voice: She's got a version of everyone.
This was a new version. Rowan-who-does-good-work. It didn't erase the old one. It just sat beside it, ready to be swapped in or out depending on what the moment required.
She turned to face him, and her expression shifted into something softer. More intimate. The look she used when she was about to say something important.
"Ira, I wanted to talk to you about something."
Here it was. The speech. The dedication. The clean version she needed him to deliver.
"I know I can be hard on you sometimes," she said. "I know that what I say isn't always easy to hear."
He blinked. This wasn't what he'd expected.
"You know that saying—'Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable'?" She smiled, almost rueful. "That's how I see my role. As a mentor. As someone who cares about your growth."
The words hung in the air. He could feel them settling into place, reshaping the space between them.
"I see so much potential in you, Ira. That's why sometimes what I say is uncomfortable. Because I believe you can handle it. Because I believe you're meant for more than the easy path."
He should say something. Thank her. Acknowledge the gift she was offering—the gift of her hard truths, her high standards, her willingness to say what others wouldn't.
"I appreciate that," he heard himself say.
"I know you do." She reached out and squeezed his arm. "That's what makes you special. You receive correction with grace. So many young people can't do that. They get defensive, or they shut down. But you—you take it in. You let it work on you."
The rot speech came back to him. The morning the lumber didn't arrive. Her voice in the half-light, naming what she saw in him.
When I find rot, I cut it out.
He'd taken that in too. He'd let it work on him for weeks.
"The dedication speech," she said, shifting gears smoothly. "I don't want you to stress about it. Just speak from the heart. Tell them why this place matters. Tell them what drove you to propose it in the first place."
"I'm still working on it."
"Of course you are. You're a perfectionist. That's one of your gifts." She glanced around the room again, nodding to herself. "But don't overthink it. The donors want to see the real Ira. The young man who saw a need and stepped up. That's all."
The real Ira.
He thought about what Rowan had said. She's got a version of everyone.
"Oh, and I've been meaning to tell you." She said it casually, like an afterthought. "I've been in touch with some people at Capstone. About you."
Ira felt something tighten in his chest. Capstone University. The small Christian college four hours south. The one with the service scholarships and the ministry track and the mascot—a blond, blue-eyed Conquistador at a school with zero Spanish-speaking students. The one his youth group had visited sophomore year, where everyone had talked about calling and purpose and the fields that were ripe for harvest.
The one he'd never actually said yes to.
"They're very interested in what you've been doing here," Hagarty continued. "This kind of project—it's exactly the profile they look for. Servant leadership. Initiative. A heart for community." She smiled. "I may have mentioned you'd be speaking at the dedication. They said they might send someone."
"Send someone?"
"Just to see the work. Meet you. Nothing formal." She waved a hand. "But it never hurts to have the right people watching, does it?"
Ira nodded. He didn't know what else to do.
The dedication was becoming something else. Not just a ribbon-cutting for the Ridgeline Project. A showcase. An audition. His summer of labor transformed into a portfolio piece for a future he'd never chosen.
"I should let you get back to it," Hagarty said. "Just wanted to check in. See how my favorite project manager is doing."
She hugged him again on the way out. Held it a beat longer than necessary.
"I'm proud of you," she said into his ear. "I hope you know that."
Then she was gone. Her car pulled out of the lot, and Ira stood alone in the parsonage, surrounded by new walls and old foundations.
He didn't feel proud.
He didn't feel anything he could name.
Dinner was quiet. Her father had made soup—something with lentils and greens, the kind of simple cooking he did when her mother was tired. They ate at the kitchen table with the windows open, catching the evening breeze.
"You were on your computer a long time today," her mother said. Not accusatory. Just noticing.
"Research."
"For school?"
Miri hesitated. The stone was in her pocket. She could feel its weight against her thigh.
"No. For me."
Her parents exchanged a glance. The kind that held entire conversations.
"Is this about Park Yuna?" her father asked.
Miri nodded.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was the Quaker kind—the kind that made space for whatever needed to emerge.
"I found out how the search process works," Miri said. "In Korea. With the agencies."
Her mother set down her spoon. Waiting.
"She has to consent. Park Yuna. If she hasn't registered with a reunion service, I can't contact her. I can ask, but she gets to say no."
Her father nodded slowly. "That seems right."
"It does." Miri looked at her soup. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. That I could just find her. That if I wanted to know badly enough, I'd figure out a way."
"And now?"
"Now I know it's not just about what I want."
Her mother reached across the table and covered Miri's hand with her own. Didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
"I'm going to submit a request," Miri said. "To the agency. To see if she's registered. That's the first step."
"Okay."
"Is that—" She stopped. Started again. "Is that okay with you?"
Her father's eyes were soft. "Miri. She's your mother too. We've never pretended otherwise."
"I know. But—"
"There's no 'but.' You carry both. You've always carried both." He smiled, just slightly. "We carry them with you. Remember?"
Miri felt her throat tighten.
"What if she says no?" she asked. "What if she never registered? What if she doesn't want to be found?"
Her mother squeezed her hand. "Then you'll carry that too. And we'll carry it with you."
The evening light was fading in the windows. Somewhere outside, the neighbor's wind chimes offered their commentary.
Miri picked up her spoon and finished her soup.
Ira sat on the back porch, watching the sky go purple.
His mother was inside doing dishes. Rosie was in her room, music playing faintly through the floor. The house was settling into its evening rhythms, and he was out here, trying to settle too.
Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
He'd looked it up after Hagarty left. The quote was old—some newspaper columnist from a hundred years ago, making fun of journalism. But it had been adopted by preachers, by activists, by anyone who wanted to frame their hard words as necessary medicine.
The thing was, prophets afflicted the powerful. They spoke truth to kings and priests, to people who had comfort they didn't deserve. They didn't afflict the already-wounded. They didn't tell teenagers they were rotting from the inside and call it mentorship.
But Hagarty believed she was doing something good. That was the part he couldn't get around. She wasn't pretending. She genuinely thought her hard truths were gifts. She genuinely thought his discomfort was growth.
He didn't know how to hold that.
The screen door opened. Rosie came out and sat next to him on the step.
"You're being weird," she said.
"Thanks."
"Not like bad weird. Just—" She waved a hand. "Quiet weird. Staring-at-nothing weird."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
He considered deflecting. Making a joke. Performing the version of himself that didn't worry his sister.
"About how you can care about someone and still hurt them," he said instead. "How both things can be true at the same time."
Rosie was quiet for a moment. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
"Is this about Miss Hagarty?"
He looked at her. "How did you know?"
"I'm fourteen, not stupid." She shrugged. "Also, you always get that face after you see her. Like you're trying to figure out a math problem that doesn't have an answer."
Ira almost laughed. "That's pretty accurate."
"So what did she do this time?"
"Nothing. That's the thing. She was nice. She said she was proud of me."
"And that's bad?"
"No. It's just—" He stopped. Tried to find the words. "It's like she tells me things that sound like care, but they feel like something else. And I can't tell if the problem is her or me."
Rosie considered this. "Maybe both."
"What do you mean?"
"Like—maybe she's doing something wrong, and you're also doing something wrong by letting her. Both things true." She glanced at him. "Isn't that the thing you keep saying? Both things true?"
Ira stared at her.
"When did you get so smart?"
"Always was." She stood up, brushing off her shorts, then paused. "Hey. Are you actually going to Capstone?"
The question caught him off guard. "What?"
"Mom was talking to Mrs. Okafor at church. She said Miss Hagarty told her you were practically enrolled already. That you had a calling." Rosie made air quotes around the word. "I didn't know you'd decided."
Ira opened his mouth. Closed it.
He hadn't decided. That was the thing. He'd visited the campus two years ago with the youth group. He'd sat through the chapel service and the ministry fair and the testimonies from students who'd found their purpose. And somewhere between then and now, everyone around him had said yes on his behalf. Hagarty had written his recommendation. His mother had started mentioning Capstone like it was settled. Mrs. Okafor was telling people he had a calling.
But he'd never said yes. He'd never said anything at all. And no one had noticed, because his silence looked exactly like agreement.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I thought I did. Now I'm not sure."
Rosie studied him for a moment. Then she shrugged.
"Mom made brownies. You want one?"
"Yeah. I'll be in soon."
She went back inside. The screen door banged shut behind her.
Ira sat there a while longer, watching the last light fade.
Rosie was right. Both things true. Hagarty was doing something wrong, and he was letting her. He'd been letting her for years. Taking it in. Letting it work on him. Receiving correction with grace, just like she said.
But grace wasn't supposed to feel like this. Grace was supposed to be unearned kindness, not something you had to metabolize.
He didn't know what to do with that yet. Didn't know how to refuse something he'd been trained to receive.
But he knew it now. That was different than before.
The sky was fully dark when he finally went inside.