Maybe this is what comes after.Seen and whole again.
Epilogue
DAHLIA
SIX MONTHS LATER
The mountains smell like spring.
Pine and thawing earth, rain-washed air. The kind of scent that clings to skin and hair until you start to believe you belong to the wilderness as much as it belongs to you.
The new Wheeler cabin—ourcabin—gleams under the sun. The roof no longer sags, the porch boards no longer moan. Every beam and nail holds a piece of both of us. Denver insists I did more of the work, but we both know he carried the heaviest loads—of lumber, yes, but also of heart.
“Bear!” I call, laughing as the big dog trots up the path with the little wooden cart hitched behind him, proud as a parade horse. His tail wags hard enough to shake his whole body. Inside the cart: a crate of seedlings, two thermoses of coffee, and my phone balanced on top for recording.
“Delivery from the foreman,” Denver calls from the porch. He’s leaned against a beam, sleeves rolled up, sun brightening the copper in his beard.
I lean down, stroke Bear’s ears. “You’ve got yourself a fine employee.”
He grins. “Paid better in biscuits than I ever was in wages.”
I grab one of the mugs and climb the steps. “To partnership, then,” I say, raising my thermos.
He grabs his, clinks it against mine. “And new beginnings.”
We settle on the porch swing he built last month—planks sanded smooth, chains that creak just enough to remind you you’re alive. The valley stretches below us, green and endless.
For a while, we just rock. The breeze hums through the trees, and my heart does that quiet-content thing that used to feel like a foreign language.
“Hard to believe this was the same place,” I whisper.
He looks down at me, eyes a clear glacier blue. “You changed it.”
“Wechanged it.”
He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “Maybe. But you brought it back to life. Brought me back, too.”
My throat tightens. “You know, Maya would’ve loved this.”
“She’s the one you did the challenge for, right?”
“Yeah.” I glance toward the line of pines beyond the garden. “She always said she wanted a cabin with a porch swing and a view of the stars. When she died, I thought that dream went with her. But maybe it didn’t. Maybe it just took a different path to find its way home.”
Denver’s hand finds mine, fingers rough and steady. “Then let’s make sure she’s got the best view in the valley.”
We sit like that until the sun tips low and gold across the trees. Bear sprawls at our feet, tail flicking in his sleep.
I pull out my phone and open the camera—not for the world this time, but for me. I angle it to catch Denver, the cabin, the light spilling through the forest.
“Maya,” I whisper, “we did it.”
The wind rises softly, carrying a single pine needle that drifts into my lap. I smile.
Maybe that’s answer enough.
Beside me, Denver leans in, voice rumbling against my hair. “What’s next, Sunshine?”
“Planting season,” I say. “Then whatever grows.”
