And she meant it.

“Mom says when families blend, you bring the ghosts of the old ones with you,” Ezra said. “So I think my mom’s ghost is probably sitting on the couch, and your dad’s ghost is in the garage. They’re probably just staring at each other.”

The power came back at midnight. The lights blinked on, revealing everyone's faces—tired, streaked with marshmallow, oddly peaceful.

Lia learned, in her second year of the great merging, that a stepfamily is not a house but a construction site. The first year had been about zoning permits—who sleeps where, whose toaster stays, which photographs get demoted to the basement. Now, in Year Two, the real architecture began.

“Ghosts?” she said, mouth full of foam.

There were seven of them now: her mother Mira, her stepfather Carlos, his three children (Marco, Sofia, and little Ezra), and her own brother, Sam. Lia was the hyphen in an unfinished sentence. She moved through hallways where the paint still smelled fresh, but the cracks had already started showing.

Lia looked at the couch. Empty, of course. But for a moment, she could have sworn there was a dent in the cushion, as if someone had just stood up and left the room with a quiet smile.