Chapter 25: Letters from Home

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Havenlight, casting a golden hue across the hardwood floor. Sera at the kitchen table, flipping through the pile of mail that had arrived overnight. Most of it was from the new support network—requests, ideas, updates.

But at the bottom of the pile, wrapped in blue string, was a letter with familiar handwriting.

Lina.

Sera smiled before she even opened it.

Dearest Wildflower,

I picked our first cherry tomatoes today. Mira said you'd be proud—they're sweet and stubborn, just like you. The greenhouse is louder than ever. Someone brought a harp last week. A harp, Sera. Who even plays harp in a greenhouse? Apparently Zoe from the bookshop does.

The poetry circle misses you. The kids ask when you'll come back. I tell them the truth: that you're making magic somewhere else for now. But I leave your light on every night.

Come back when you're ready. We're still blooming. Always.

Love always,

Lina

Sera ran her fingers across the words, her heart squeezing. She missed the smell of their shared sheets, Lina's paint-stained fingers, the way the moonlight bent through the greenhouse windows when they danced late at night.

She wasn't ready to return yet—but the pull of home was stronger every day.

Later that afternoon, Ivy knocked on the doorframe.

"You okay?" she asked.

Sera held up the letter. "From home."

Ivy sat across from her. "You ever think about what's next? After this place is fully running?"

"I think about it every night," Sera admitted. "Not just going back, but how to connect all these spaces. Like vines weaving through cities."

"I want to do what you're doing someday," Ivy said. "Not just stay here forever. Help more people. Start my own haven."

"You will," Sera said softly. "And I'll be there to help."

The next few days were a flurry of movement—new arrivals, city permits, volunteers, media interviews. Sera was tired, but in the best way. Every hand extended, every youth housed, every meal shared—it was the proof of something she'd once only imagined.

A couple of days later, while sorting through documents with Ellis, a new message popped up on her phone. A photo from Mira. It showed the greenhouse lit up for spring solstice, fairy lights strung between wildflowers, children chasing fireflies under the stars.

And in the corner, sitting beneath the arch of moonflowers, was Lina—holding a journal, her face turned upward as if searching for a wish she hadn't yet spoken aloud.

Sera stared at the photo for a long time.

Then she opened a blank notebook and began writing.

To those who've never been told they deserve space…

To those who feel like ghosts in their own families…

To the girls with fire in their chests and nowhere safe to burn…

We are here. We are growing. And you are not alone.

She closed the notebook, placed it on the windowsill, and stared out toward the horizon.

Home would wait.

But not forever.