Page 153 of Misery

"I know. But I'm choosing to. Day by day. I'm choosing to forgive because holding onto the anger hurts me more than it hurts you. Because I'd rather build something new than stay trapped in something old."

He pulls me closer. "I'll earn it. Every day."

"I know."

Tomorrow brings moving boxes and new spaces and building life together.

But tonight is for rest, for bodies that know each other, for trust rebuilt one moment at a time.

EPILOGUE

Elfe

Three Months Later…

The cottage looks different in spring.

Warmer. More alive.

The dead vines Oskar had torn down in winter have been replaced with new growth—clematis that will bloom purple in summer, morning glories just starting to climb, sweet peas that fill the air with perfume.

I've claimed the small deck as my outdoor studio, easel set up to catch the morning light that filters through the trees like nature's spotlight.

The painting I'm working on is nothing like my old work.

Bright, almost aggressive in its joy.

Abstract flowers that might be explosions, or might be souls blooming, or might be my own resurrection painted in cadmium yellow and cerulean blue.

Three months of therapy, three months of building something real with Oskar—it all shows in the brushstrokes.

My therapist says my art is reflecting my healing.

I think it's just nice to paint something that doesn't look like the inside of a scream.

"Coffee," Oskar says, setting a mug beside me.

Two sugars, splash of milk.

He knowseverythingabout me.

The mug is one we bought at a flea market last month—slightly chipped, painted with sunflowers, nothing like the sleek black everything he used to own.

He's been working on his bike all morning, grease under his nails, a smudge of oil on his cheek that I'll probably kiss off later.

Or maybe I'll paint him like this—dangerous man doing domestic things, the contradiction of us made visible.

We've found our rhythm here.

Weekends at the cottage, weekdays at his house in town.

My studio in his spare room is finally set up exactly how I want it—north-facing window, shelves for supplies, even a daybed for when I need to step back and think.

"Helle's coming by," I tell him, checking my phone. "Said she wants to hang out this weekend."

"Good. Haven't seen her in a while."

That's true.