Because sometimes, even a false spark is enough to keep hope burning.
In the hallway, I open my arms and let him fall into me this time. We walk out of the hospital—not whole, not steady, but still beating. One limp heartbeat at a time.
The rain has slowed to a lazy drizzle by the time we step outside. Caroline’s beside us, her keys jingling like punctuation marks. “Emma’s by the curb on the right. She insisted on driving you two. Didn’t want you coming home to silence.”
My wrist still tingles from the cuffs. I flex my fingers, trying to shake the phantom weight. “Feels weird to be free... And not drowning in cuffs or the river.”
Across the lot, Suzy’s engine hums low. Misty’s already inside, curled in the back seat with a blanket over her lap, her casted leg stretched out carefully. She stares straight ahead, unmoving, like she’s run out of energy to pretend she’s okay. Eric sits behind the wheel, hand resting on the gearshift but not in a rush to go anywhere.
Derek slips an arm around me. His voice is soft but firm. “Let’s make sure we never end up there again.”
The van is already waiting, warm air fogging up the windows. Inside, a tiny baby sleeps in a sea of fleece and knit blankets, his fists balled beneath his chin like he’s already dreaming of conquering the world.
Emma opens the door with a smirk. “Meet Frederick. Not in his birthday suit this time. Fred for short. Already bossing us around like a true Silver.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. I reach in and touch one curled foot through the blanket. “Hi, Fred. You’re beautiful. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Just wait until he starts glaring like Caroline,” Emma says as she slides behind the wheel. “Right now, he’s summoning gods at 2 a.m. with that banshee cry of his.”
We sit in the very back. Baby Albert is buckled safely between me and Derek, surrounded by more padding than a NASCAR driver. Eric gives us a two-finger salute before pulling out behind us in Suzy.
It’s a thirty-minute drive back to Lords Valley, but instead of turning toward the farm, Emma takes a left across town.
“Where are we going?” I ask, fingers tangled with Derek’s across the console.
“You’ll see.” She glances at us in the mirror. “You both need to remember what it feels like to come home.”
The bakery appears like a memory restored: warm and golden, its sign glowing through rain-rippled windows. Swirls of cinnamon and apple steam blur the glass. A tabby cat slinks beneath the eaves, then disappears inside just as Emma parks.
“I didn’t want you going home before seeing you both still belong here,” she says.
We turn a corner—and there she is.
Honeycrisp Pies.
The sign glows golden through the mist, warm and sure, like it never stopped waiting for us. Steam blurs the windows, curling with the scent of apples and sugar and home.
A lump rises in my throat before I even step out of the car.
Emma parks and gestures to the building like she’s offering a gift. “Didn’t want you going home without seeing it. You still belong here.”
I step out of the car and the warmth hits first—sun on my skin, the scent of cinnamon and sugar spilling from the open door, and the sound. The breeze carries hints of apple blossoms and something that smells like home. I reach for Derek’s hand, and together, we cross the street like we never left. A tabby cat scurries across the stoop and ducks inside ahead of us like he owns the place.
Neighbors huddle under umbrellas. Mrs. Kensington waves from behind a flower box overflowing with mums. Tommy Patterson bounds toward me and thrusts an apple branch into my hands, blossoms pink and trembling in the breeze.
Even the old bell above the bakery door chimes like a song I remember.
Inside, it’s magic.
The red-and-white floor squeaks under my boots. The air is thick with pie crust and frosting, coffee and memory. Laughter floats from the kitchen. Mrs. Waters waves a slice of something steaming from the counter.
And my mother—my tough, trembling, flour-covered mother—peeks out from behind the swinging door, apron dusted and eyes already wet. She blinks like she doesn’t trust what she sees.
I step toward her, heart breaking open, and she crosses the kitchen without a word and wraps me in her arms. She insisted on baking a few of my specialties early, filling the bakery with the warm scent of cinnamon and nostalgia, even though we weren't officially open yet.
It smells like childhood and forgiveness.
Derek’s parents are tucked at a corner table we’ve set aside just for family, mugs in hand, their eyes misty as they rise to greet us. Eric’s parked Misty’s wheelchair beside them, sling and cast in full view. Misty smiles faintly when she sees us, but her grip on the armrest is white-knuckled, like she’s holding herself together with thread.
