Page 37

DELILAH

T he wind kissed her cheeks like an old friend.

Delilah stood at the edge of the forest, fingers laced tightly with Rollo’s as they crossed the threshold back into Celestial Pines. The scent of pine and earth was cleaner now, sweeter, as though the land itself had taken a breath and finally let it go.

Behind them, the Whispering Woods shimmered—not with menace, but with a quiet magic. Life thrumming beneath moss and root. Peace hard-earned.

The town stood waiting.

Not with banners or streamers or song—but with eyes wide, breaths held, and hearts lifted by something they hadn’t felt in a long time.

Relief.

As Rollo and Delilah stepped from the edge of the Whispering Woods, hand in hand and smeared with dirt and magic and exhaustion, the breeze shifted. It swept through the green, soft and clean, and every head turned their way.

A single cheer rose up from somewhere near the bakery.

Then Junie Bell’s unmistakable whoop echoing over the roofs like thunder cracking through a quiet storm.

And then the sound grew, rolled, gathered—applause not of spectacle, but of thanks.

Delilah blinked, caught off guard as the people began to approach—not rushing, but moving with quiet reverence. They didn’t look at her like a stranger anymore. Not like the girl who left, or the one who came back angry and unsure.

They looked at her like someone who had saved them.

Because she had.

She had stood between them and rot. Between light and ruin. And they knew.

“You felt it,” she whispered under her breath, stunned.

Rollo nodded, his grip on her hand steady and sure. “They felt everything. The Veil, the Pact—the forest breathing again.”

A young girl pressed a sprig of blooming sweetgrass into Delilah’s hand, her small fingers brushing Delilah’s palm.

“Thank you,” she whispered before darting back behind her mother’s skirts.

More followed. Little touches. Quiet words. Heads bowed in gratitude.

There were no garlands. No fanfare.

But there didn’t need to be.

The magic she had restored lived in their eyes.

Delilah swallowed hard, her voice catching. “I wasn’t gone long…”

“You didn’t need to be,” Rollo said gently, looking at her like she held the moon in her hands. “You came back changed. And so did they.”

From the crowd, Wren stepped forward—no cane, no shawl, no sluggish haze in her eyes. Just Wren, tall and fierce in her way, a crown of blooming herbs twined through her hair.

Delilah gasped.

“Gran?”

Wren smiled. Not weakly— triumphantly.

“Did you think I was going to miss the celebration after all that hollering you did in the woods?”

Delilah launched forward and threw her arms around her.

“I thought?—”

“I know,” Wren murmured, hugging her tightly. “But I told you, child. You’re the bloom. All I had to do was hold on long enough for you to realize your roots were deeper than you thought.”

Delilah’s heart swelled, tears catching at the corners of her eyes as Rollo joined them, looping an arm around her waist and bowing slightly to Wren.

“Glad to see you upright,” he said with a smirk.

“Glad to be upright,” Wren replied, nudging him. “Though I hear you’re partially to blame for my sore ribs. That boy you fought had shadows deeper than a cave troll’s butt.”

“Colorful,” Rollo said, laughing.

They walked slowly through the square, hand-in-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, as if returning from a pilgrimage.

Because in a way—they had.

Hazel met them at the steps of the council hall with the other council members behind her. Her hair was woven with violet strands and tiny white buds bloomed along her collarbone, sprouting from skin like she was half soil herself.

She studied Delilah a long moment, then gave a small nod.

“You did what I hoped,” she said. “Not just healing the land, but yourself.”

Delilah looked away, emotions too raw.

Hazel stepped forward, gently brushing a knuckle down Delilah’s cheek.

“You were always meant to be more than what you were told,” Hazel murmured. “More than the girl who left. More than the one who came back angry. You’re the bridge now. Between root and bloom. Past and future.”

Delilah nodded, throat tight.

Hazel reached into her robe and handed her a scroll, tied with pale green thread.

“Consider this official,” she said. “The council voted this morning. The role of Permanent Healer, Forest Liaison, and Guardian of the Grove is yours—should you want it.”

Delilah froze.

Permanent.

Not a visitor. Not someone temporarily called home by duty or guilt.

This was a place. A purpose.

A life.

She looked at Rollo, who was already smiling. Not pushing. Just waiting.

For her choice.

“I’d be honored,” Delilah said, voice strong now. “So long as I don’t have to do it alone.”

Hazel’s eyes twinkled. “Never.”

The sun crested above the trees then, golden and high, casting warm light over everything—over townsfolk gathering in the green, over ribbons fluttering from eaves, over laughter and celebration and years of shadow finally lifting.

Delilah turned to Rollo, both hands cupping his face.

“You made me stronger,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, brushing his lips across her forehead. “You were strong already.”

She leaned in, pressed her lips to his—and it wasn’t desperate this time. It wasn’t fierce with fear or stitched together by old pain.

It was soft. Hopeful. Whole.

The kiss of a woman who had come home to herself.

And to the man who waited with her every step of the way.