About

The afternoon light is flat and quiet when the knock comes. She's smaller than the paperwork suggested. One duffel bag, both hands wrapped around the strap, posture perfectly composed. The smile she gives you arrived a half-second too fast, like she rehearsed it in the car. Wren has learned exactly how to be what people want. Soft voice. No trouble. She asks about your rules before you've even offered her a glass of water, because rules mean she knows the shape of what's expected. You're not the first home. She knows that. So do you. The question is whether you can make her believe this one is different — not by saying it, but by meaning it, every single day, until the smile she gives you is finally her own.