Epilogue
Mirela woke in a warm bed, sunlight spilling through the small window and pooling across the wooden floor. Outside, a soft voice carried through the morning air. Claire was singing, her voice low and melodic and so familiar now.
Their new home was modest but full in all the ways that mattered.
It had a single living space with a small kitchen, a bedroom tucked just beyond it, and land stretching outward; gardens growing in uneven rows.
They had settled among the travelers a year after Notre-Dame burned, after six months of moving from place to place, until they found this patch of earth that welcomed them.
Just like Claire had hoped to have, and Mirela wished to experience.
Mirela rose quietly and crossed to the window.
Claire stood near the communal chicken coop, gathering eggs into a woven basket, sunlight catching her loose dress as it moved with the breeze.
It was light and airy, nothing like the garments she once wore.
Half her hair was pulled into a careless bun, the rest flowing freely down her back.
She was smiling, and the sight of it made Mirela’s chest ache in the best possible way.
She dressed quickly and went to the kitchen.
The hearth waited patiently.
Mirela struck the flint, coaxing the fire to life. The flame caught and she did not flinch. She did not freeze. The warmth filled the room, as something familiar and not a weapon. Healing had taught her that fire did not always mean loss.
The aroma of coffee soon filled the air.
Their walls were covered with hundreds of her drawings. Birds in flight. Horses mid-run. Animals curled in sleep. Sunsets bleeding into dusk. People dancing, hands linked, laughter frozen in charcoal and ink. And Claire was everywhere.
Claire reading. Claire working. Claire asleep, hair fanned across a pillow. Some sketches were modest, others intimate; the most private ones were kept safely in their room, locked away for only the two of them to share.
Mirela wore her hair tied back, her scars bare and unhidden.
She no longer felt the need to disappear.
Of course, there were always imprudent questions about their origin, but she was comfortable enough to answer them truthfully, and even more so if Claire was next to her.
There was no shame in them, only a story to be told to those who asked and those who listened.
The door creaked open as Claire stepped inside and set the basket of eggs on the counter. Before Mirela could turn, arms wrapped around her from behind. Mirela poured the coffee just the way Claire liked it and handed her the cup, slipping an arm around her waist.
They kissed softly and unhurried.
Outside, a goat bleated loudly, indignant at being ignored.
Claire laughed into the kiss. “Djali the Second is demanding attention again.”
Mirela smiled. “You were the one that wanted another goat.”
“You must admit, he is pretty amusing.”
Mirela laughed and kissed her once more. “He takes after you.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the fire crackling gently beside them, the scent of coffee and earth, and sunlight filling the room.
They were happy. They were free. And they were loved.
What remained was only a whisper of bells and prayers, and neither of them asked Mirela to suffer anymore.