The house at the end of Heron Lane was quiet in the way that silences things around it. Birds did not land on its roof. Cats would not sit at its wall. The children who had grown up on Heron Lane — who had climbed every other fence, mapped every other garden — had never,…
The rain came back in the summer when Dayo turned forty-three, and it brought everything with it. Not the ordinary rain that makes the gutters run brown and the schoolchildren shriek. This was the rain that had stopped seventeen years ago, the week her mother was buried, the kind her mother had called “faithful rain”—the…