EPILOGUE
MADISON
I’m not sure when I start hearing the music.
Time is funny like that when you’re sleeping so deeply.
All I know for certain is at some point, in place of the air conditioner’s hum and the city noise outside the window of our apartment, I begin to hear music. A gentle strumming on the guitar and a warm, raspy voice that always settles something in my soul as I lie dozing in our king-size bed, only barely beginning to rise out of sleep.
I know I’m safe. I know I’m rested. I know I’m warm.
But it’s so early.
Except I love hearing that voice and the sound of the guitar.
It’s what I yearn for.
Day in and day out.
When I finally open my eyes and see him sitting in his familiar spot next to the fireplace, I smile.