"You're humming."
I wasn't. Was I? Then, I heard it—low, unconscious, some half-remembered tune drifting up from my chest. I couldn't remember the last time I'd hummed anything.
Eric grinned. "That's new."
I cleared my throat, embarrassed. He fell into step beside me, closer this time, and I didn't stop humming.
When the trees opened up, and the cottage came into view, I paused at the edge of the clearing. The windows glowed faintly, and the porch light cast long shadows down the steps.
Eric stopped beside me. I looked back once—only for a second. I couldn't see the Coffee Pot anymore. It was just a dark sky, thick with stars, all burning exactly the same way they had before we arrived. And yet…
"I used to think silence meant something was missing," I said. "Like it was a placeholder for what never arrived."
Eric didn't answer. He waited for me to continue.
"But now?" I looked at him. "Now it feels like something's finally landed."
He reached for my hand. Not dramatically or possessively. Just there. Steady.
And in that moment, Ironhook's silence wasn't emptiness anymore. It was the sound of home.
Epilogue - Wes
The rubber mat in front of the rink doors hadn't changed—still curling at the corners, still dusted with salt and grit. I nudged it with my boot and pushed the door open.
Inside, the rink echoed with the peculiar music of kids trying hard not to fall over—scrapes, squeals, hollow thuds, and the occasional triumphant yelp when someone stayed upright. It had been a year since I accepted the invitation to coach the kids.
"Tyler!" I called, barely raising my voice. "Bend your knees, not your spine—you're not bowing to the puck."
He grinned over his shoulder without correcting his form. His stick clattered to the ice as he lost his balance anyway, legs going in two directions at once like a startled deer. He popped back up quickly, cheeks flushed.
"Better," I called again. "But I'll show you what happens to people who don't listen if my knee gives out."
A few of the kids giggled. One of them—Milo, always serious—raised a hand. "Would you really fall down just to prove a point?"
"Absolutely," I said. "And I'd do it with style."
I stepped onto the ice and leaned forward, bracing my arms on the boards.
Across the rink, Brooks was helping a smaller kid re-lace his skates. Rory had a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other, scribbling something I probably wouldn't agree with. I often argued with him about drills, though never about why we showed up. That part was settled.
A rogue puck clanged off the boards near my elbow, and I turned just in time to see Junie looking horrified.
"Sorry, Coach!"
I waved her off. "No harm, but aim for the net next time, not my ribs."
She gave me a salute with her stick.
Practice bled into free skate time. A few older teens had shown up to work out drills on the far end, and the chaos of the younger ones gave way to a more rhythmic thump of practiced passes and boots crunching across the rubber flooring.
I joined the younger kids as they converged on a bench. They peeled off gear in heaps and untying skates with mittened fingers. I knelt to help with a stubborn knot, my knee protesting with a steady ache that reminded me not to get cocky.
"You're not gonna leave next year, are you?" Milo asked, looking up at me while I tugged at the lace.
"No," I said. "I'm right where I'm supposed to be."
His eyes narrowed like he was measuring the truth of it. Then he nodded once and darted off to find his mom.
