Epilogue
Hannah
One Year Later
T he air smells like cinnamon and cider, a promise that autumn has settled in for good. A year ago, I never thought I’d be here, standing at the edge of Levi’s fields, apron dusted with flour, hair whipped by the crisp October wind, watching Ivy race toward her pony with a squeal of joy.
“Daisy!” she calls, and the little chestnut mare tosses her head as if she knows she belongs to Ivy and Ivy alone.
Just beyond, a patch of pumpkins -- her personal supply -- burn bright orange against the earth. She kneels down to check the vines, as serious as any rancher, her little hands patting each round fruit like she’s blessing them.
I can’t help smiling. She’s thriving here. We both are.
Inside the new farm-to-table restaurant we’ve built, the chatter of neighbors hums through the wide-plank walls.
Lanterns cast warm pools of light on the long tables, where families are gathered around steaming bowls of pumpkin bisque and plates of cider-glazed donuts.
They’re eating food I created from the same land Levi tills.
My recipes, his harvest -- together it feels like more than just a business.
It feels like a dream stitched out of our very souls.
A hand touches the small of my back. I turn to find Levi, eyes blue as the October sky, holding out a single apple like it’s an offering. “You keep taking what I grow,” he says, his mouth curving slow and easy, “and making it into something better.”
I take the apple from him, press it to my lips, and grin. “No, Levi. You give me the earth. I just add the hearth.”
His laugh rumbles through me before he steals a kiss. A year ago, this place was only his. Now it’s ours.
**
Ivy props herself against her pillows, a quilt bunched around her small frame, puppets already on her hands. In one she has the prince, in the other the princess, and beside her on the nightstand lies the evil witch, waiting for her cue.
“Ready, Mama?” she asks, eyes sparkling.
I smile, opening the worn book to the first page. “Ready.”
My voice softens as I begin to read, the rhythm of the fairytale carrying us both.
This time, though, the words don’t feel like lies.
They don’t sting with the bitterness of dreams I thought would never come true.
They feel like something we’ve built ourselves, every page turned a reflection of the life we’ve made here.
Ivy makes the prince and princess bow and twirl as I read, her laughter bubbling up like music.
When the evil witch makes her entrance, Ivy swoops her across the quilt in exaggerated menace before the prince bravely steps in.
She narrates under her breath, adding her own spin, and I can’t stop laughing.
From the doorway, Levi leans against the frame, arms crossed, watching us with that look … the one that says he’d stand guard over this moment forever.
Now, I don’t question if fairytales are dangerous. I don’t worry if they’ll prepare her for the world.
Because here, with Levi’s strong presence in the doorway and Ivy’s joy lighting the room, I know we’ve made a story better than any I could read aloud.
A real-life fairytale … Ours.