Epilogue
Five months later
Iflip the sign to “ Closed for Fair Day,” and pull the roller door down halfway. The shop stays dark, everything we need is on the street. Jasper and I wheel out two crates and a folding table, spread out a canvas cloth, and create stacks for: Local Authors, Poetry, and Kids in neat rows.
We have a dedicated table for Lilah’s book The Year Before You which I have been unable to keep in stock since she went public.
It has been printed with her name—Lilah Rayne, no Lola in sight.
It now also includes an author photo–no one could forget her.
Of course we have kept parts of her at home, the photo with Carol and her author copies.
Rey’s linocut poster goes on the easel Inkwell Marley sells out of tote bags; Rey refuses three separate requests to draw dogs “unless they hold a pose.” The Brew Cart sends over iced lattes.
Ezra swings past with spare flyers and a grumpy almost-smile, then disappears toward the kids’ corner where someone is reading picture books on a picnic rug.
By four, we start to pack down. Crates fill, cords lift, chalk dust smears. My parents swing back as Jasper hauls the last box inside.
Mum brushes dust from her skirt and gives me a hug that smells like lavender and flour. ‘We’ll let you two go tonight, but we’re in town for the week. Plenty of time to catch up properly.’
Dad clasps my shoulder. ‘You did good today, son. Proud of you.’
I nod, throat tight. ‘Thanks for being here.’
They leave hand in hand, and I stand for a moment in the street’s soft exhale, watching them blend into the thinning crowd.
I make it home first. Lilah’s ducked to the café for a final check.
The place is thriving these days. Thursday through Saturday nights, she opens the ice-cream window and still manages to sell out before closing.
Kids, teens, locals—they all line up under the fairy lights, spoons clinking, laughter spilling onto the street.
She says it reminds her that joy can be simple.
She moved up here with me after New Year’s but kept her apartment above the café open, says it’s for anyone who needs a place to land. A safe space, just like Nettie gave her once. She doesn’t talk about it like charity, but love recycled.
The kitchen smells like garlic, basil, and nerves.
I stir the sauce for the third time even though I don’t need to, glancing at the little table I’ve set for two.
Nothing fancy. Candles, mismatched plates, and a folded napkin where I’ll leave the ring.
It isn’t about theatrics. For Lilah, it’s about showing up and staying.
The door creaks and keys drop in the bowl. Then my favourite sound, Lilah’s laugh. Light, unguarded. Sounds like home. I wipe my hands on the tea towel as she steps into the kitchen, cheeks pink from the evening air, hair wind-tossed, coat dusted with leaves.
‘You cooked?’ she asks, blinking at the table. ‘Is this a bribe or an apology?’
‘Neither,’ I grin. ‘Just dinner.’
She crosses the room and kisses my cheek. ‘Well then, I’m officially suspicious.’
I hand her a glass of wine and watch as she sinks into the chair like she hasn’t sat down all day.
‘You see your parents before?’ she asks lightly, toeing off her boots.
‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling at the memory. ‘They’re sticking around for the week. Said we’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Dad tried to give me advice about stall layouts like he’s suddenly in retail.’
She laughs, soft and genuine, and the tension in my shoulder’s eases. The conversation drifts back to her day, but the thought lingers; family here, family to come, something worth staying for.
‘Nettie’s prepped the cart for next weekend,’ she says. ‘And Ezra pretended not to care that Marley filmed a reel of his bar cart, which means he absolutely cares.’
I watch her, not in a creepy way, just the way you look at someone when you realise, they’ve become the centre of your world so quietly you didn’t notice the shift. ‘You sound happy,’ I say softly.
She glances up, and the smile that blooms is all sunlight and soft places. ‘I am.’
She tells me about a kid who asked how to write a first chapter and the two teens who swapped annotated copies at the tent. She talks about feeling steady when the mic found her voice.
After dinner, I clear plates while she makes tea. When she turns, I’m on one knee with the little box between us. She gasps, hand to mouth.
‘I didn’t want a grand gesture,’ I say. ‘I wanted us.’
She doesn’t speak, tears welling in her eyes as she steps closer. ‘You once told me you didn’t need fireworks. You just wanted someone to see you. I see you, Lilah. Every version, every chapter. And I want all of them.’
Her eyes shine. ‘Lucas…’
‘You changed my life in a hundred quiet ways,’ I say. ‘So this is me asking if I can keep changing with you.’
I open the box. Candlelight catches the gold band and the morganite stone, understated and very her. ‘Marry me?’
She doesn’t answer right away. She closes the distance and wraps her arms around my neck. ‘Yes,’ she whispers, voice thick. ‘Of course, yes.’
In this moment, her heartbeat against mine, the scent of sugar and stories in the air; I know this is the plot twist I never saw coming, and it’s my favourite one yet.
She laughs a little through the tears, shaking her head like she’s trying to catch up to the moment. ‘I spent so long thinking I was writing The Year Before You,’ she whispers. ‘Turns out I was just trying to find you.’
I touch my forehead to hers. ‘You did,’ I murmur. ‘And I’ve been yours ever since.’
Some stories don’t end. They just keep turning the page.