“Yeah,” she said. “Just thinking. Bryn won’t be the only one. There are so many families out there who never got a place to put their grief down. We should start reaching out when we’re ready.”
“We will,” he said. “One story at a time.”
She nodded, then turned back to him.
In a few weeks, this room would be full of easels, tables, and racks. The wall downstairs would start to bloom with color and memory. The farmhouse would creak under the weight of their furniture and their arguments over cabinet handles.
The case Diaz was working on would grind forward. New problems would appear: pipes, engines, permits, and people.
But right now, in this small, bright pocket of time, the future felt less like a cliff and more like a path. Not smooth, not without potholes. Just something they could walk together, one step at a time.
She picked up her brush again, loaded it with color, and turned to the blank canvas waiting on the second easel.
“What are you starting?” Hank asked.
She smiled, feeling the weight of the ring, the steadiness of his presence, the ghosts that felt a little less heavy here.
“Home,” she said. “I’m painting home.”
Outside the windows, Copper Moon glittered along the harbor. Inside, Bryn’s portrait dried in the corner, Hank’s finished painting gleamed under the afternoon light, and on Bree’s hand, the ring caught every bit of brightness it could.
They’d started. They weren’t stopping.
Epilogue
The farmhouse looked different on their wedding day. Not just cleaner or dressed up with flowers, but lived in. Owned. Claimed.
Morning light spilled over the front field, laying gold across the grass as if the whole town had decided to bless them at once. The porch had fresh paint, courtesy of Colby and Brian after a “we swear this is a gift, not an intervention” weekend. Strings of white lights looped from the house to the maple trees. Lila’s crew had set up tables and chairs under the branches, each one draped in simple white cloths that fluttered in the breeze.
It felt like the place had been waiting its whole life to host a wedding.
Hank stood in the bedroom he shared with Bree, doing the world’s worst job of tying his tie. He’d rebuilt engines with fewer curse words.
“You’d think a mechanic would have better fine motor skills,” Brian muttered behind him. He leaned against the doorframe, already dressed in a dark shirt and slacks, looking annoyingly put together.
“Engines don’t require formal wear,” Hank said.
“I’m just saying,” Brian replied, strolling over and nudging Hank’s hands away. “This is the price of marrying an artist. You have to look like you’re capable of attending a gallery opening without embarrassing her.”
Hank didn’t bother denying that he’d do anything Bree asked today.
Brian finished the knot and stepped back. “There,” he said. “Passable.”
“I’ll take passable.”
Down the hall, laughter rolled from the den, where Bree and her mother had taken over the space to do hair and makeup, and what sounded like last-minute crisis management. Something thudded, followed by Bree’s voice.
“I’m fine! I swear I’m fine!”
Brian grinned. “Sounds like pre-ceremony panic.”
Hank’s heart tightened. “She’s not having second thoughts.”
“No,” Brian said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But she’s allowed to freak out. You’re allowed, too.”
He didn’t say he already had, alone in the truck fifteen minutes earlier, when the weight of what he was about to commit to had hit him in a way that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. Not fear. More like awe. The kind that humbled a man.
Colby appeared in the doorway next, hair trimmed, suit pressed, carrying himself with the calm steadiness of someone who’d run more dangerous calls than anyone here knew.
