Chapter Twenty: Roots and Wings
May arrived with a soft hush of warm air and blooming dogwoods. The whole town of Dalton seemed to breathe a little easier, as if the frost had finally let go of everyone's shoulders.
Ellie was deep into editing her book. Most mornings she spent in the converted shed Jack had turned into a studio—sunlight falling through old windows, paper and photos spread across the desk. Jack often brought her lunch, sometimes sitting beside her in silence, other times reading drafts and making her laugh with his impressions of the townsfolk she'd interviewed.
But they were both waiting for something.
One Friday evening, Jack asked her to take a walk. Not down their usual road, but up the hill behind the Lawson land, where the big oak tree stood tall and wide, its roots knotted into the earth like ancient veins.
He carried a picnic basket. She carried questions.
As they ate beneath the tree, the sun dipped low over the horizon, turning the sky into fire. Jack reached into the basket and pulled out a small box.
Ellie froze.
He opened it.
Inside was a simple ring—rose gold, delicate, with a tiny emerald set in the middle. The color of new leaves. Of beginnings.
"I could tell you I planned this," he said, voice rough, "but I didn't. I just knew I couldn't keep walking through life without asking you to walk beside me, forever."
Ellie covered her mouth with her hands.
"I want the roots," he said. "I want the hard days. I want the messy arguments and the making up and the mornings we don't feel like talking but still make coffee for each other. I want the whole damn thing, Ellie."
She cried. And laughed. And whispered, "Yes," before he could even finish asking.
They sat under the old tree as the stars came out, and Ellie rested her head on Jack's shoulder, her hand in his.
She thought of every photograph she'd ever taken. Every story she'd ever told.
None of them compared to this one.
The story of love—found late, held fiercely, and rooted deep in the he
art of a quiet town called Dalton.