Charlotte stood at the edge of the path, handing off a sealed envelope to a waiting courier. He didn’t need to ask what it was. He knew. The Echo Files: A Record of the Erased—Collected and Compiled by Charlotte Everhart, her record of everything they’d uncovered. Everything they couldn’t allow to be forgotten. Compiled, organized, and sealed with her name on the cover.
It would give the others closure. Maybe not peace—not yet—but something close enough to stand on.
The envelope disappeared into the courier’s bag, and Charlotte turned back toward the Institute, hair catching the light, posture tall. Steady. Alex felt the tug of something unfamiliar at first, then realized it was hope. No heaviness. No dread. Just... forward.
He glanced down at the worn book open in his lap, but he wasn’t really reading. His mind was already spinning toward what came next. He wasn’t there yet physically, mentally, but the pieces were shifting back into place. Slowly. One at a time.
He wanted a future with her. Not built out of the wreckage, but something new. Tangible.
If his recovery kept on track, maybe one day he could return to the job. The work had always mattered, but it mattered differently now. With more focus. More edge. And Noah—Noah had already floated the idea of hiring Charlotte full-time as an in-house investigator. Not just for what she knew, but for who she’d become through all of it.
Alex smiled faintly at the thought.
It was still a long way off. Healing came in layers, and both of them were still peeling some of theirs back. But watching her hand off that file, watching her choose to give it to the world instead of carrying it alone, it did something to him. She’d let people in.
It reminded him that survival wasn’t the end of the story.
It was just where hope began.
The Porch at Charlotte’s Home, July 16th, 6:58 p.m.
The world had quieted. Not in that eerie way it sometimes did before things went wrong, but in a breathing way. The kind of silence after surviving something that should’ve broken you. Something that almost did.
Alex sat on the top step of Charlotte’s porch, a glass of iced tea sweating in his hand, his bare feet braced against the warm wood. The last of his bruises were fading under the edge of his rolled-up sleeve, and for the first time in months, there wasn’t a band around his wrist, no blood pressure cuff, no clipboard shadowing his every breath.
He was out.
Discharged.
And Charlotte… she’d brought him home.
“Our home,” she’d said softly when they pulled into the drive that morning. Just the two of them and the wide-open stillness of Waverly Junction.
No beeping monitors. No white coats. No vitals being logged in the middle of the night. He’d go back for PT and follow-ups. He knew that. But for now, he was here. And the world was warm and green and still.
Behind him, the porch swing creaked lazily. Charlotte was stretched across it, one of his old shirts draped over her shoulders, legs tucked beneath her, a file folder resting on her lap she wasn’t even pretending to read. She hadn’t said much since lunch, just looked content to be. He hadn’t seen that expression on her face in a long time.
After she published The Echo Files, after everything she’d lived and relived, something in her had shifted. She still carried the weight, but it wasn’t steering the wheel anymore. She was giving more of herself to the present now. Her girls. Him.
God, the girls.
They’d taken him to lunch during one of his day passes, all five of them lined up like a gauntlet of beautiful, unstoppable energy. Ruth had slid the envelope across the table with a straight face, like it was business.
It wasn’t.
Inside was an invitation, handmade, full of glitter and sincerity, asking him to walk them all down the aisle.
Even Molly, who’d already married Ethan in a courthouse. She wanted this too. The wedding they never got. A shared day. One ceremony. Five brides. One man to give them away.
He’d cried in front of the whole restaurant. He’d cried with Charlotte and with his therapist. But that day, it cracked something wide open. Not grief. Not trauma.
Love.
He looked down at the iced tea. At his own hand. At the life that hadn’t slipped away when it had every right to.
Behind him, the swing stilled. A shadow moved. Charlotte padded down the steps, sat beside him, thigh pressed to his. She reached for the tea and took a sip without asking.
“You know,” he glanced sideways at her, “I never thought peace would be this… boring.”
