When we broke apart, his forehead dropped to mine.
"Say it again."
"I'm staying."
"Again."
"I'm staying, Ben. Not because the valley claimed me or because my grandmother planned it. Because you showed me what my hands could make when I stopped performing. Because you held me in a prop room and didn't try to fix anything." I traced the line of his jaw. "Because I love you. And I want to see what we become."
A tear rolled down his cheek. "I love you too. I've loved you since you fell on Holly's doorstep. I've loved you since you stood in my workshop and touched the craftsman's marks like they meant something, even before you knew what they were."
He folded the scrap of paper carefully and tucked it into the recipe box between the lasagna and the apple brown betty.
"There. Now it's official. Filed with the important things."
I laughed. "You're ridiculous."
"You're stuck with me."
The house settled around us. Outside, snow began falling again, tracing patterns only the valley understood. I'd spent fifteen years learning how to perform a life I thought I wanted.
It turned out the only performance that mattered was showing up—present, imperfect, willing to be seen.
Ben reached for my hand. I held on.
Chapter twenty-two
Epilogue - Alex
The radiator in the east wing clanked its familiar three-beat rhythm—thunk-hiss-ping—and I smiled without meaning to. A year ago, that sound had scraped my nerves raw. Tonight it felt like a greeting from an old friend who couldn't be bothered with words.
Pine boughs wound through the backstage rigging, their sharp green scent cutting through decades of accumulated dust and greasepaint. Someone had strung cranberry garlands along the fly ropes. The theater dressed itself up for Christmas Eve the way some people couldn't help humming carols—instinctively, joyfully, and without apology.
"Hold still." I tugged at Charlie's Nutcracker Soldier jacket, working a stubborn brass button through its hole. "You've grown three inches since we fitted this in October."
"Two and a half." Charlie stood on a battered costume trunk, his chin raised with the kind of dignity that would've seemed theatrical on anyone else. On him, it was authentic. "Mrs. Kowalski measured me last week."
"My mistake." I smoothed the jacket's epaulets, remembering the trembling boy who'd whispered his audition monologue to the floor last year. That kid had flinched when anyone spoke too loud. This one held my gaze and mock-saluted with parade-ground precision.
I saluted back. "Look at you. All swagger and brass buttons."
"I learned from watching the best."
"Ben's head is big enough without you—"
"I meant you, Alex." Charlie's voice had settled into a deeper, steadier tone over the past year, the anxious wobble smoothed away like a rough plank under patient sanding. "Obviously."
A cluster of ensemble members bustled past—the Snowflakes, judging by their tulle and body glitter—tossing "Merry Christmas Eve!" over their shoulders like confetti. Charlie accepted their greetings with a professional nod that made me bite back a laugh.
From the orchestra pit, a violin traced the opening phrase of the party scene waltz. Then a clarinet joined, woody and warm, followed by the cellos finding their low hum. The sound climbed through the floorboards and settled in my chest.
A year ago, I'd stood in this exact spot with my hands shaking so badly I'd dropped my script twice. I'd been certain the panic would swallow me whole the moment I stepped past the wings. Certain that Yuletide Valley's magic was just wishful thinking dressed up in tinsel and good lighting.
Now I pressed my palm flat against the painted brick wall—cool and solid, thrumming faintly with the orchestra's vibration—and felt nothing but my own steady pulse answering back.
I'm ready, I thought.
"You're doing that thing," Charlie said.
