Maya turned, her face softening. "The sky says that?"

He carried her to the window seat, where a small radio was playing a soft, jazzy tune. He poured her a tiny cup of warm milk with a dollop of honey, and handed her a pancake shaped like a lopsided bear.

Leo stood by the window, a mug cradled in his hands, watching the rivulets race each other down the glass. He wasn't a morning person, but rainy mornings were the exception. They felt like a secret the world was sharing just with him.

"Look," he said, pointing outside. The rain had softened to a mist. A single ray of sunlight, pale as a pearl, broke through a crack in the clouds and made the wet street shimmer like a river of silver.

His daughter, Maya, appeared in the doorway, her hair a wild mess of sleep-tousled curls. She was wrapped in a blanket like a tiny, grumpy burrito. She squinted at the grey light filtering through the window.

"It's still night," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.