The morning after the literary festival, Violet woke to birdsong and sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't feel the weight of unspoken words pressing down on her chest.
She turned over to find Adam already awake, reading one of her old notebooks.
"You're not supposed to snoop through the sacred archives," she teased, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
Adam held it up with a sheepish grin. "You wrote a poem about a boy named 'Coffee' in tenth grade. I'm just making sure he's not still a threat."
"Oh God," she groaned, burying her face in the pillow. "He was fictional!"
"Was he tall and broody with strong espresso vibes?"
"Absolutely not," she muttered.
Adam leaned down and kissed her shoulder. "Then I think I'm safe."
---
The success of the festival brought a wave of new opportunities—some unexpected.
That afternoon, Violet received an email from a small publishing house based in New York. They'd read her collection of letters and wanted to talk about expanding it into a full-length memoir.
"Are you serious?" she said, staring at her laptop screen, blinking.
Adam leaned over her shoulder. "Who's Rachel Andrews?"
"She's the editor. The Rachel Andrews. She worked with Melissa Clain!"
"You mean the woman who wrote Letters to a Ghost Husband?"
"Yes!" Violet exclaimed. "This is real."
"You're going to be published again," he said softly.
The words felt surreal—like hearing your name called in a dream and turning around to find the world waiting for you.
But with that joy came something else. A quiet unease she hadn't expected.
"What if I don't want to go back?" she whispered.
Adam looked at her. "Back where?"
"To the city. To that pace. That life. What if I like who I am here?"
"You don't have to go," he said. "Not unless it feels right."
"But it's in-person meetings. Events. Networking. They want me to be present. What if being present means leaving this place—leaving us?"
Adam hesitated for a long second. "Then we figure it out."
---
That evening, they took a walk by the river.
The water was low, the stones along the shore visible like hidden teeth. The same place where Violet had once stood alone, hoping her pain would dissolve into the current.
Now, she stood with Adam—his fingers brushing hers, tentative, warm.
"Can I ask you something kind of terrifying?" she said, glancing sideways.
Adam raised an eyebrow. "More terrifying than your tenth-grade Coffee Boy poem?"
She elbowed him gently. "Serious."
He nodded.
"If I had to go—just for a while—would you wait for me?"
Adam didn't answer right away. He bent down, picked up a smooth stone, and skipped it across the surface of the river.
"I wouldn't wait," he said.
Violet blinked. "You wouldn't?"
He turned to her, voice quiet. "I'd come with you."
Her breath caught in her throat.
"You'd leave everything?"
"I'd bring everything that matters with me," he said. "You think this place made me who I am, but you're the one who did that, Violet. You're the one who stayed when I didn't even know how to ask."
---
Back at the apartment, they curled up on the couch, half-listening to a vinyl record Violet found in her father's old collection. There was something haunting about the crackle between songs—like hearing ghosts hum between verses.
Violet stared at the ceiling. "Do you think your dad would be proud of you?"
Adam paused, then nodded slowly. "I think he'd be surprised. Then proud."
She smiled. "I think mine would be surprised too."
They sat in companionable silence until the record stopped spinning.
Then, Adam turned to her. "Let's do it."
"Do what?"
"New York. Let's go. Just for a little while. We'll figure out the details later. Maybe we hate it. Maybe we love it. But let's not wonder 'what if' again."
Violet searched his face. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more."
---
Three weeks later, they packed up the apartment.
Not completely—just enough for a few months. The essentials, the sentimental, and a lot of books.
Marianne cried when they told her. Not because she was upset, but because she was proud.
"You were always meant for something wider than this town," she said, hugging Violet tightly. "Just don't forget your way back."
"I won't," Violet promised.
At the train station, several familiar faces came to say goodbye—Elijah from the café, Mrs. Porter with her weathered mystery novels, and even the grumpy librarian who had once refused Violet's library card because she returned a book two days late in 2007.
Adam waved as the train pulled in. "You ready?"
Violet took a deep breath and looked out at the town—the bookstore, the bakery, the streets that had once felt like cages but had become something far more precious.
"I'm ready for afterwards," she said.
---
New York was loud.
Louder than she remembered. Car horns, subway rumbles, voices layered like overlapping sheet music. But amid the chaos, she felt something unexpected.
Excitement.
The publishing house set up meetings, photoshoots, interviews. Violet found herself in rooms she once dreamed of entering, speaking about grief and healing as if she'd rehearsed it for years.
Adam took up a temporary residency with an artist collective in Brooklyn, painting in a shared studio with exposed brick and bad coffee.
They came home exhausted every night, feet aching, words tumbling over each other as they tried to tell stories of their day all at once.
Some days were hard. Some days they missed home.
But most days, they looked at each other and thought: This is the life we never thought we'd get.
---
One night, after a particularly overwhelming reading event, Violet stood in the apartment's tiny kitchen, staring at the stars through the window.
Adam came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked.
She leaned back into him. "I think I'm falling in love with the girl I've become."
He kissed her temple. "I know exactly how she feels."
---