Epilogue – Silas
The winter light through the sugar shack windows turns everything golden. Steam rises from the evaporator, curling toward the ceiling in lazy spirals.
The door opens, letting in a blast of cold air and Sage, her cheeks pink from the cold. She kicks snow from her boots and unwinds the scarf from around her neck.
"Bottling day?" she asks, though she already knows the answer. The rows of clean glass bottles stand ready on the prep table, waiting.
"Just about. Another twenty minutes." I move the hydrometer through the liquid, checking density. Perfect. "How's the test batch?"
"Exceptional." She crosses to me, her movements sure and practiced in this space that was once exclusively mine. "The hickory smoke notes are subtle but distinct. You were right about the aging process."
"Told you." I can't help the small, satisfied smile. "Six months in the charred barrels makes all the difference."
"Yes, yes, you're very wise and all-knowing." She rolls her eyes, but there's warmth behind the mock exasperation. "I've already set up for the tasting session. Three premium restaurants confirmed for next week."
She moves to the filtering station, checking the setup with a professional eye. Her hands adjust one of the filters, tightening a connection I hadn't noticed was loose.
"The Terroir people called again," she says casually, though we both know it's anything but casual. "They're still interested in the exclusive distribution rights."
"And what did you tell them?"
"That we're considering all options." She picks up a thermometer, checking it against the digital readout. "But that our production methods don't scale the way they want."
"Good answer."
She glances over, smiling. "I learned from the best."
"Hand me that ladle?" I ask, though it's within my reach. She passes it without looking, her attention on the notebook where she keeps her meticulous records of each batch. “Still meeting your father for dinner next weekend?" I ask, skimming foam from the surface of the boiling sap.
"Mmm. He's bringing that wine he won't shut up about." She makes a note in the margin of her book. "And he mentioned something about those old restaurant blueprints you asked about."
David and I have settled into a comfortable rhythm of our own these past years. Not quite the easy friendship of our youth, but something new, something honest.
"I still think you're crazy to consider it," Sage adds, closing her notebook. "A restaurant up here would be a logistical nightmare."
"Not a restaurant," I correct her for what must be the tenth time. "A tasting room. Small. Controlled. By reservation only."
"Still crazy."
"You said the same thing about the barrel-aged syrup."
She concedes this with a tilt of her head. "Fair point."
The sap reaches its final temperature. I begin the filtering process, and Sage joins me without being asked, falling into the practiced choreography we've developed.
Steam rises around us, warming the air between our bodies.
Sage tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a smudge of sap on her cheek.
I reach out automatically to wipe it away, my thumb lingering briefly against her skin.
She leans into the touch without breaking her concentration on the task, the movement so natural it's almost imperceptible.
"Almost ready for bottling," I say, checking the final filter. "Want to bring in the new labels?"
"Already here." She pulls a box from beneath the counter. "They arrived yesterday while you were checking the north slope lines."
The new labels are simple, elegant: "Thorn & Winters Maple."
We work in companionable silence, filling bottles, capping them, applying labels with precise movements. Through the windows, the afternoon light begins to soften, casting longer shadows across the snow-covered ground.
"I'm thinking rosemary-infused maple butter to go with dinner," she says after a while. "Those venison steaks deserve something special."
"The last of Mitchell's buck?"
"Mmm. I traded him two bottles of the dark amber for the tenderloin." She caps another bottle with practiced efficiency. "Plus he fixed that leak in the greenhouse roof."
The greenhouse was her project last spring—a way to extend our growing season, to bring more of her culinary vision to life here in the mountains.
"I'm heading back to start dinner," she says, hanging her apron on the hook by the door—the second hook, installed without comment the month after she first stayed. "Need anything from the cabin?"
"Just you," I say, the words coming easily now, no longer trapped behind walls of restraint or fear.
She smiles, crossing back to where I stand. Her hand finds my face, thumb tracing the edge of my beard, now more gray than brown. She rises on tiptoe to kiss me.
"You say the sweetest things, old man," she murmurs against my lips.
"Not that old," I counter, my hands settling at her waist with the ease of long practice.
"Keep telling yourself that." She steps back, eyes bright with humor and something deeper, more permanent. "Don't be too long. I have plans for you before dinner."
"Is that right?"
"Mmm." She reaches for her coat. "Involving that maple syrup sample from this morning's batch."
"Seems like a waste of good syrup."
"Trust me," she says, hand on the door. "It won't be wasted."
She steps outside, closing the door behind her. Through the window, I watch her make her way along the path toward the cabin—our cabin now, not just mine.
Soon I'll follow her footprints home, to warmth and food and the life we've built without ever quite planning to.
Thank you for reading!