Name-sake (EPILOGUE)

The house was yellow. Soft, not loud. Like something from an old picture book: white shutters, climbing ivy, and a porch swing that creaked with every gust of wind. Even the front steps seemed to sigh under their weight, as if the house itself was breathing.

Theo hadn't known it was that house—the one beside Mara's—until the movers were halfway done. His arms ached from lifting boxes when he glanced across the driveway and saw her standing there.

Mara.

She wore a hoodie too large for her frame, hands shoved into the pockets, eyes narrowed in amused disbelief.

"Seriously?" she called across the lawn.

Theo grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Fate. Or bad real estate planning."

Mara let out a short laugh. "You're kidding me."

He walked toward her, crossing the lawn like no time had passed. They hugged the way old friends do—firmly, without needing to explain why the contact still mattered.

When they stepped back, they both looked older—though neither would say it out loud. Mara's hair was longer now, streaked faintly with copper in the sunlight. Theo stood straighter than he had in college, with a kind of quiet confidence earned from both mistakes and grace.

"So," Mara said. "Suburbia, huh?"

"Apparently." He looked around. "It's quieter than I thought."

"You'll hate that after six months."

He smirked. "Anya says I'll adjust."

Mara's smile shifted at the mention of Anya. Not stiff, but measured. Theo noticed but didn't push.

"I should let you finish unpacking," Mara said, stepping back.

"Actually—come over next weekend. Meet Anya. Meet the baby."

"The baby," Mara echoed, as though trying on the word.

"Amelie," he said, his face softening. "You'll like her."

Mara hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."

A week later, Mara stood on the Quinns' front porch, casserole dish in hand, heart thudding far more than she'd anticipated.

The door opened before she could knock. Theo grinned wide, his familiar face warm and grounding. "Right on time."

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender and something baking. Sunlight spilled through gauzy curtains. Anya sat on the couch, a baby nestled against her shoulder, humming softly off-key.

Mara tried not to stare. At the baby. At Anya. At the life Theo had built that somehow managed to feel foreign and inevitable all at once.

Anya stood carefully, shifting the baby into her other arm. "Hi," she said, voice kind. "I'm so glad you could come."

"Thanks for having me." Mara forced a smile that, to her surprise, grew more natural as Anya's expression never faltered.

"She's beautiful," Mara said, leaning slightly to glimpse the tiny face resting against Anya's collarbone.

Theo chuckled. "She has your stubborn eyebrows."

Mara raised hers. "Excuse me?"

"And your middle name," Theo added.

She blinked, processing.

"Her name is Amelie Mara Quinn," he said softly.

Mara's throat tightened. The casserole felt absurdly heavy now.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know," Theo interrupted gently. "But I wanted to."

There was a pause—a full, saturated beat where neither of them moved.

"You shaped who I became, Mara. You reminded me that friendship can be sacred. That love doesn't always wear the clothes people expect."

Mara sat down slowly, like her legs didn't fully trust her.

A strange quiet settled over the room. It wasn't discomfort. It was... reverence. A mutual understanding of everything unspoken between them.

"And," Theo continued, sitting beside her, "I want you to be her godmother. If you're willing."

Her mouth opened, then closed. Finally, a small breath of laughter slipped through.

"Me? A godparent?"

He nodded, smiling gently. "Yeah. She's going to need someone who teaches her how to stand straight in the storm. Who listens without always needing to fix things. Someone who keeps notebooks full of things no one else ever sees."

The words cut right to her. Not painfully. Just honestly.

Mara glanced toward the baby again—small, perfect, oblivious to the weight of this moment.

She nodded. "Okay."

They didn't say much after that. There was nothing more that needed words.

The house breathed around them: the creak of the porch swing in the wind, the ticking of an unseen clock, the gentle coo of a newborn's breath. The kind of silence that only old friends could share.

Outside, the afternoon sunlight painted golden lines across the hardwood floors.

Two houses. Two lives. Running parallel still. No longer colliding, but enduring.

Where most stories ended, theirs kept folding into life quietly, patiently—like beams beneath the roofline. Unseen. Essential.

Because some friendships don't fade.

They simply become part of the architecture.

.

.

.

.

.

The End.