Three weeks later 
The sky was grey the morning Monica was laid to rest, clouds hung low like a somber veil over the cemetery. The air hung heavy with quiet reverence as Nadia, dressed in a simple black gown, stood beside her mother's casket. The ceremony was modest—just a few relatives, some distant friends, Mr. Stephen with his weathered hat in hand, Mirian clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers, and Jayson in his wheelchair, weak but determined to be there. He wouldn't let Nadia face the moment alone.
Pastor Wells spoke in gentle tones about Monica's life, her struggles, and her quiet strength. Nadia barely heard the words. Her mind was filled with memories—her mother's hands braiding her hair, the scent of bread baking in their small kitchen, the sound of her soft humming while she worked.
"Would you like to say a few words?" the pastor asked, turning to Nadia.
She nodded, stepping forward. Her voice was steady despite the ache in her throat.
"My mother lived in shadows most of her life. She carried burdens no one should have to bear, and she did it with grace. She protected me, loved me, and taught me that truth matters more than comfort." Nadia's fingers traced the edge of the casket. "That gives me peace."
Tears welled in her eyes, but Nadia didn't let them fall. Her mother deserved grace, not despair. She placed a single lily—Monica's favorite—atop the casket, whispering, "I did it, Mom. I made sure the truth came out."
When the casket was lowered into the earth, Jayson wheeled forward and gently held her hand.
"She would be proud of you," he said softly. "More than you know."
Nadia squeezed his hand. "I hope so."
The silence between them spoke more than any words. Together, they said goodbye.
Mr. Stephen approached after the ceremony, his eyes kind beneath bushy brows. "Your mother had a hard life, but she loved you fiercely, child. That's a blessing not everyone gets."
"I know," Nadia replied. "I just wish—"
"Wishing doesn't change the past," he said, patting her shoulder. "But it can shape the future. You've got that power now."
Mirian came next, embracing Nadia tightly. "I brought these for Monica," she said, placing the wildflowers on the fresh soil. "They said wildflowers were braver than garden blooms—they found a way to grow without anyone tending them."
Nadia smiled through her tears. 
---
Back at Mr. Stephen's cottage, the atmosphere was calmer. Though the ache of loss still lingered in the corners of Nadia's chest, the peace of the countryside soothed it little by little. 
Jayson's recovery became her new focus—tending to him, feeding him, talking with him under the wide open sky. Each morning, she would help him outside to a weathered bench beneath an old oak tree, where they would watch the sun climb higher.
"You don't have to fuss over me like this," Jayson said one morning, wincing as he adjusted his position.
"I'm not fussing," Nadia replied, arranging a blanket across his lap. "I'm keeping you alive out of pure stubbornness."
He laughed, then grimaced at the pain in his ribs. "Well, you're doing a fine job of it. Though I'm not sure I deserve all this attention."
Nadia sat beside him, their shoulders touching. "Don't start that again. We both made mistakes. We both paid for them. Now we get to decide what happens next."
"And what would you like to happen next?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.
She looked out across the fields, watching birds swoop and dive. "I don't know yet. But I think it might involve more mornings like this."
Three months passed like a slow stream: Jayson's wounds healed, the bruises faded, and his strength returned. He began walking short distances with support, cracking more jokes, and even helping Mr. Stephen with small repairs around the house.
"You're getting handy with that hammer," Mr. Stephen remarked one afternoon as they worked to fix the garden fence. "Might make a proper countryman of you yet."
Jayson wiped sweat from his brow. "I spent too many years chasing leads and investigating crime. There's something honest about this work."
"Honest work for an honest life," the older man nodded. "It's not fancy, but it fills the soul better than anything else I know."
Later that evening, Nadia found Jayson sitting on the porch steps, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and pink.
"May I join you?" she asked.
He smiled up at her. "Always."
She settled beside him, their hands finding each other without needing to look.
"I got a letter from the prosecutor today," she said after a moment. "Donovan's first hearing is tomorrow."
Jayson's jaw tightened. "Are you going?"
"I would love to witness the final hearing. For closure." She paused. 
"I understand. Then, let's wait for final hearing."
"Sure," she replied, resting her head against his shoulder.
Sometimes, in the quiet of dusk, Nadia would paint again, capturing the hills, the wind, and the soft smiles that had begun to return to their faces. Her technique was different now—less constrained, more honest. The colors she chose were richer, the strokes more confident.
One evening, Mirian found her working on a portrait of her mother, not as she had been in her final days, but as Nadia remembered her from childhood—strong, smiling, full of quiet dignity.
"That's beautiful," Mirian said, watching over her shoulder. "You've captured her spirit."
"I want to remember her this way," Nadia replied, adding a touch of light to Monica's eyes. "Before everything happened."
"She's still with you, you know," Mirian said softly. "In everything you do."
Nadia nodded, setting down her brush. "I know. I feel her sometimes, when the wind blows just right or when I'm cooking using her recipes."
"Will you and Jayson stay here? After everything is settled, I mean."
Nadia looked around at the small room that had become her studio, at the wildflowers she'd placed in a jar on the windowsill, at the painting that captured not just her mother, but the peace she'd found here.
"I would love to," she said thoughtfully. "At least for a while. The city holds too many ghosts for both of us. And here..." she smiled, watching through the window as Jayson walked slowly but steadily across the yard, "here we can breathe."
It wasn't the life she had imagined, but it was beginning to feel like home.
And Jayson—he was still by her side.
Alive. Whole. And with her.
Later that night, as crickets sang outside their window, Jayson took her hand in the darkness.
"I've been thinking," he said softly.
"A dangerous pastime," she teased.
"Indeed." He chuckled. "I've been thinking about us. About what happens when this peaceful interlude ends. When we have to face the world again."
Nadia turned to face him, though she could barely make out his features in the dim light. "What do you want to happen?"
"I want..." he hesitated, his fingers tracing circles on her palm. "I want mornings with you. And evenings. And all the hours in between. I want to build something real, something honest—like what we've found here."
"Are you proposing, Jayson Coleman?" she asked, her heart beating faster.
"Inelegantly, perhaps." She could hear the smile in his voice. "But yes. When you're ready. When we're both ready."
Nadia moved closer, resting her head on his chest where she could hear his heartbeat—strong and steady now, no longer fragile. "I think... I think I'd like that very much."