Epilogue – Sylvara
Rosaria insists on picking the fiercest flowers, the ones that dare the world to try them. She skips past the fragile ones—those soft, drooping blooms that bend too easy under a fingertip—and hunts for the bold, the unbreakable.
Right now, she crouches low in the wildflower field, knees sinking into the grass, her curls bouncing loose in the wind, hands stuffed with poppies and goldenrod, a few violet thistles with edges that bite.
She frowns at a poppy that snapped in her grip, its red head dangling limp.
“This one gave up,” she says, voice sharp with disappointment, tossing it aside.
I kneel next to her, brushing a smear of dirt from her freckled cheek with my thumb. “Maybe it gave what it could, Rosie.”
She squints at me, green eyes narrowing like she’s sizing up my logic. “I want strong ones, Mama.”
“You’ve got plenty,” I say, nodding at the messy bundle in her fists—stems crooked, petals blazing orange and crimson, a riot of color spilling every which way.
She holds it up, proud, inspecting her haul. It’s wild and uneven, but it’s beautiful. Just like her.
We’re out here in the field that stretches along the back of our property, where the old fence rotted away years ago and the town never bothered to claim the land.
Kieran keeps a path mowed through the tall grass every week, but he leaves this patch alone, letting it grow free. The flowers thrive on their own terms—poppies pushing through cracks, thistles standing tall, goldenrod painting the edges yellow.
Rosaria fits right in, a little storm of her own making.
She wanders ahead now, tiny fists clutching her tangled stems, humming a tune that’s half song, half nonsense. Every few steps, she stops, bending to study a new bloom, muttering to herself like she’s bargaining with it.
I settle onto a flat rock near the windmill’s rusted base and watch her, the sun warming my shoulders, not scorching, just enough to feel alive.
A breeze carries pollen and dry sage across the field, tickling my nose, while a dog barks somewhere two streets over and a hawk screeches above, carving lazy loops through the endless blue.
For a moment, I let myself believe this is forever—the flowers, her humming, the house sitting quiet behind me with its chipped paint and creaky porch.
I used to count exits—back doors, windows, alleys I could slip through if the past came knocking too hard.
Now, I count colors instead: the red of her poppies, the yellow of the goldenrod, that impossible violet that only grows here, stubborn and bright.
Rosaria catches me staring and grins, squinting into the sun. “Mama, you’re thinking too loud again.”
I laugh, soft and real, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. “Always do, kid.”
She shrugs and turns back to her flowers, but she’s right—I think too much, even now. Less than I used to, though.
There are days she sprawls on the sidewalk with chalk, sketching dragons and thieves and firestorms that swallow whole cities. She always makes the thief the hero, says they’re just taking back what the world snatched first. I watch her hands move, quick and sure, and wonder what they’ll become—painter, fighter, dreamer.
At night, when she’s asleep, I trace the tiny bones of her knuckles, smooth and unmarked, and hope they never carry scars like mine.
That’s the point—she doesn’t know what we survived. Kieran and I built this life so she wouldn’t have to.
A flicker of movement snags my eye—a dark car rolling down the field road, too quiet for the gravel beneath its tires.
I straighten, my spine stiffening out of habit, breath catching sharp in my throat. The car creeps forward, engine a low hum, and time pulls tight, a thread ready to snap.
I stand, hands empty—no weapons anymore, just me, watching. My heart thuds, steady but loud, a reflex I can’t shake. The car slows, tires crunching faint, and I track it, every inch, waiting.
Then it picks up again, rolling past, disappearing around the bend.
Just a car. Nothing more.
I exhale, long and uneven, realizing only now I’d stopped breathing. The breeze lifts the hem of my dress, cotton brushing my calves, and I hear footsteps crunching behind me—familiar, uneven from the way he favors his left side since the last fight left him bruised.
“Papa!” Rosaria shrieks, dropping her bouquet in a scatter of petals and stems.
She bolts across the grass, and Kieran scoops her up with one arm, spinning her in a wide arc. She laughs, loud and wild, hiccupping as he stumbles a step, then collapses onto the ground with her tucked against his chest.
They’re a heap of giggles and tangled limbs, breathless, and I see the picnic basket resting in the crook of his arm, handle worn from years of use.
I walk toward them, steps steady, no hurry, just drawn in. He reaches for my hand as I get close, and I slide my fingers into his, the calluses on his palm a map I know by heart. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at me, eyes tracing my face like he’s memorizing it all over again.
I nod, glancing at Rosaria, her cheeks pink from the sun and the spinning, her fingers tugging at a poppy stem she’s trying to braid into his hair. It’s a lost cause, slipping loose every time, but she keeps at it.
“I still flinch sometimes,” I say, voice low, almost lost in the breeze.
He tilts his head, just enough to catch my words. “So do I.”
“But not like before,” I add, squeezing his hand.
“No,” he says, voice steady, “because now we don’t flinch alone.”
Rosaria scrambles up, grabbing the basket and tugging it open, her small hands fumbling with the latch. “Food, Papa! I’m starving!”
Kieran chuckles, sitting up, brushing grass from his shirt. “Starving, huh? Guess we’d better fix that.”
I help him spread the blanket under the oak tree, its branches sprawling wide, leaves rustling overhead.
We unpack soft cheese, a crusty loaf of bread, a jar of jam she tries to pry open before handing it to me with a huff. “You do it, Mama. It’s stuck.”
I twist the lid off, handing it back, and she grins, triumphant, smearing jam on a chunk of bread with her fingers. Kieran tears off a piece for himself, offering me a bite, and I take it, the sweetness bursting on my tongue.
They tease each other—her giggling when he pretends to steal her bread, him groaning when she wipes sticky hands on his sleeve.
“Watch it, you little monster,” he says, ruffling her curls, and she sticks her tongue out, diving back into the basket for more cheese.
They turn on me next, Rosaria holding up a jam-covered finger. “Mama needs some too!”
I dodge, laughing, and Kieran catches my wrist, pulling me close. “She’s right—you’re not escaping this.”
I let him smear a dab of jam on my cheek, his thumb brushing it away, and for a minute, it’s just us—messy, happy, alive.
The field stretches around us, flowers swaying, the house watching from its perch, and I feel the ground solid beneath me, holding us up.