“And what does she sing, Goldfinch?” I murmur. Her smile breaks through like the sunlight above us. “The song of home,” she says. “The sun is singing the song of home.” My chest swells, and when she reaches a hand up and tugs at my arm, I lie back with her, situating until we’re arm to arm, leg to leg. “Listen,” she whispers. So I do. I thread my fingers through her own, and I listen. But my song of home doesn’t come from the sun. Mine comes from her.
