Chapter 47 Rowe
Rowe
It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve been in downtown proper, so I go for a drive through Mystic Meadows. What I see stops me cold.
The grime, the faded exteriors, the dull, lifeless film that coated Mystic Meadows for years—gone. It’s like someone took a celestial sponge and scrubbed the town clean, swiping away every trace of decay and disappointment.
For so long, people tried to fight back against the fading magic. Pressure-washing their storefronts. Slapping on new coats of paint. Stringing up extra lights to chase away the gloom. But no matter what they did, the sparkle never stuck.
Until now.
Now the town gleams. The buildings, once faded and tired, practically glow in the sunlight, their facades vibrant and crisp.
The trees seem taller, fuller, their emerald leaves rustling like they’ve finally shaken off years of exhaustion.
Even the sky is bluer—not just blue, but a rich, deep sapphire that stretches endlessly overhead, the kind of sky that makes you want to believe in things you once thought impossible.
And the air . . .
It’s alive.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the café, richer and warmer than I’ve ever smelled it. The buttery sweetness of pastries lingers in the breeze. Even the earth beneath my boots feels different—softer, warmer, like the very land is humming beneath my feet.
And now the river sparkles.
No longer a sluggish ribbon of murky sludge, it shimmers under the afternoon sun, liquid silver threaded with flecks of iridescence. It’s the kind of water you want to touch, just to see if the magic clings to your skin.
But it’s not just about how things look.
It’s about how they feel.
There’s a hum in the air, a quiet, pulsing energy that vibrates through every breath I take. It’s in the wind. In the pavement beneath my boots. In the way people walk—heads higher, shoulders looser, laughter spilling from their lips like a melody the town had forgotten.
I think of what Pane said, that the starfizz berries worked with the ley lines, strengthening the magic that had been dormant for so long. It wasn’t just the town that needed them; the magic itself needed something to anchor it. A symbiotic relationship. One couldn’t exist wholly without the other.
I know this firsthand. My family’s farm has always held some magic, but it was small, quiet, nearly forgotten. Nothing like this. Nothing like the way it breathes through Mystic Meadows now.
The people are different, too.
Gone are the drab, lifeless clothes, the muted tones that once let them fade into the background.
Now, color explodes everywhere—bright skirts, patterned shirts, vibrant scarves fluttering in the wind.
People smile freely, their movements lighter, as if some invisible weight has been lifted from their shoulders.
It’s joy, pure and unmistakable, and it’s everywhere.
“Hey, Rowe!”
I glance over to see Coleman Barrier waving at me as he opens a clapboard sign advertising discounts on hammers.
Coleman Barrier, the human splinter, is waving. At me.
I return the gesture and yell out, “Good to see you, Coleman!”
“Same here! We’re all proud of your farm.”
So am I, so much so that I can’t stop smiling as I make my way home.
By the time I reach the farm, I feel the change here, too. The land welcomes me back, buzzing with the same quiet magic that now fills the town.
I pull into the driveway, kill the engine, and step out, drinking it all in. The farm stretches before me, vibrant and alive, mine in a way it hasn’t been in years. I let out a breath and smile.
For the first time in ages, Mystic Meadows—and the people in it—feel like they’ve finally woken up.
“Have you heard?” Cristina says into the phone, her voice on supersonic speed.
“Heard what?”
I take a bite out of a carrot before handing the rest to the piggycorn at my feet. Currently, we’re sitting in the gazebo, enjoying the fall air. The humidity’s finally receding, and the temperature has dropped at night, washing the air with a coolness that’s invigorating.
“About the resort,” she says.
“What resort?”
“The resort going up in the mountains.”
“No, I haven’t heard anything about it, but it’ll be great for our business.
” Saying that should make me feel awesome, but instead it only amplifies the hollowness inside me, the words echoing in my chest, reminding me of just how lonely I am.
Nothing has been the same since Pane left.
I’ve tried to ignore it, to push aside the ache that eats away at me, but it’s persistent, gnawing, reminding me that I’m so very, very alone.
That I had happiness within reach, but I decided to push it away. “So that’s a good thing—a new resort.”
“So you don’t know,” she tells me flatly.
“Yes, I do. You just told me.”
“But you don’t know who’s building it.”
“Why would I know who’s building it? I only just found out about it.”
“Hold on. Are you ready?”
It’s the tone of her voice that tips me off, and I know without having to ask who is building in Mystic Meadows.
“It’s Pane,” I say.
“It is!” she shrieks. “He was in town today, apparently, talking to people about it—Ron and Isaac, I guess. Clarice told me.”
My stomach somersaults in on itself, falling into a black hole from which there is no escape. I’m elated, surprised, angry. Why is he building here? Has he returned to torment me?
No, no. Of course he’s not here to torment me.
He’s keeping his promise. Even though I spurned him. Pane has returned. He’s come back.
He’s come back.
That’s when guilt crashes down on me. I broke things off with him because we were too different, because deep down I knew he would abandon me. It’s always better to be in control, to hurt first instead of being hurt first.
As I walk back to the house with the piggycorn following me, Cristina goes on about Pane, about the project, how the town is overjoyed that he’s come back.
They’re overjoyed.
I’m even more devastated.
How can I face him after what I did?
My heart throbs in agony as I step inside the house. It pulses with frustration as I push the door closed behind me. It screams in torment as I spy my dad’s old boots.
Somehow they survived the tornado. I thought they’d been lost, but when the house fixed itself, it delivered the boots in their usual spot just inside the back door.
I slip into the cracked leather, tired and dusty from years of hard work.
I take one step.
Snap.
The sole of the right boot has broken in two. After years of wear, after years of belonging to my dad and then me, its time has ended.
It’s funny, the things that register and the times when they do. I slide my foot out, pick up the boots, and walk them to the trash.
I stop just in front of it.
“You there, Rowe? Rowe, are you there?”
“Let me call you back,” I tell my best friend.
I stamp on the trash can’s pedal, and the lid lifts. The blackness waits for the boots to fall in, and as it looms, my heart convulses. Throwing these away feels like I’m throwing away part of myself. No, not part of me—part of my dad. It feels like if I lose these, then I’ve lost myself.
How silly is that? It’s just a pair of old boots.
Even though things change—years pass, people die, surroundings alter—the one thing that remains is you and how you deal with those changes.
And I’m tired of expecting the worst and waiting to be abandoned. No more. I’m ready to fall, and hopefully Pane will catch me, because I love him. With all my heart, with all my soul, I love that man, and he needs to know it.
“Goodbye, Dad. See you on the flip side.”
Then I drop the shoes in the trash.
Maybe I can catch Pane before it’s too late.