Word has a way of seeping through wood. People start asking in Juneberry, on the town green, in whispered, nosy, hopeful voices:When are you open? When can we book?
One night, Wells finds me in the parlor, staring at the hearth with a soft smile.
“What?” he says, suspicious of my face.
“I was just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
“Hopeful,” I correct.
He takes my hand, his thumb tracing along my knuckles. “Should we set a date, Els?”
“April third,” I say. Elspeth’s birthday. “A soft opening. Two rooms, maybe. First floor only.”
“The rest will follow.”
“Slow,” I remind him.
“Slow,” he agrees.
And when winter finally thaws and the first crocuses push their brave heads through the thaw, we stand in the doorway together, ready to welcome our new guests.
EPILOGUE
WELLS
The grand announcementis a handwritten sign in Juneberry’s window:
Soft Opening / Two Rooms / Be Kind.
Isla insisted on the last line. Bobby added a crooked sparrow that more closely resembles a potato with wings. Elsie said it was perfect.
We’ll build out more when the time feels right. A website first—Reid claims he knows how—then maybe a few local listings. A ribbon-cutting, if the house doesn’t mind the attention. For now, word travels on its own.
Our first guest is a woman traveling solo with a weary terrier tucked under one arm. There’s something weathered in her expression, but something hopeful too. She pauses in the foyer, as if waiting to be let in. The house gives a soft creak. That seems to be enough.
She writes her name in the guest book, brushes her fingers along the banister like she’s greeting an old friend, and thanks me more than once. I think about telling her she doesn’t need to—but instead, I walk her through the kitchen, show her the kettle and the good tea, nudge the tin of shortbread toward her (Elsie’s—now edible, miraculously), and say,
“If you need anything, shout.”
The second guest shows up just after dusk. He’s a grad student with an enormous backpack and a stack of books about lichen. Says the ridge has “highly interesting microclimates.”
I like him right away.
I carry his bags, explain the radiators (“They hiss, but they’re harmless”), and show the trick to opening the parlor window—push, breathe, then lift. He nods like this all makes perfect sense. It’s the kind of logic that feels human.
Out-of-towners don’t call it magic, of course. They never do. They say it’s the charm, or the age, or how the house has clearly been cared for. They take pictures of the banister, the teacups, the way the afternoon light throws lace-shaped shadows across the hall rug.
Later, they post about it and use words likecozy, tucked-away, healing.
They’re not wrong.
The inn plays along. The floors stay quiet. The chandelier gives the faintest chime when someone says something fun. Nothing showy, but enough to feel noticed. Enough to let them know they’re welcome.
A hush. A flicker. A little bit of something extra, folded into the everyday.
“Breakfast,” Elsie says, tying on Elspeth’s old apron. “Eggs from the market, toast, Mirabelle jam, fruit if the produce truck hasn’t murdered the peaches on the way up the ridge. Cinnamon in the coffee. Lemon poppyseed muffins because I’m feeling brave.”
