Chapter Twenty -Five: Miles Apart

New York was everything Ellie remembered—loud, vivid, full of strangers and momentum. She arrived with a suitcase full of notebooks and a heart pulled in two directions.

The residency gave her a small studio in the Village, with creaky floors and windows that looked out on a fire escape. She spent her days writing, attending workshops, and meeting other creatives. At night, she'd walk the city blocks with her camera, capturing moments the way she once did in Dalton—but it wasn't the same.

She missed the quiet of home. The way Jack always knew when she needed coffee, or silence, or a laugh. She missed the porch swing, the smell of oil from the garage, and the feel of his arms around her when the world was too big.

Jack, back in Dalton, poured himself into his work. He fixed tractors, helped neighbors rebuild fences, and spent quiet nights reading Ellie's letters by the fireplace. Each one smelled like her. Sounded like her. Carried bits of her heart between the lines.

"I met a poet today," she wrote. "He said people like us love in full color. It made me think of your hands, stained with grease, and the way you hold me like I'm made of something rare."

Jack smiled when he read it, then folded the letter into a drawer he kept locked.

He didn't tell her how much he hated sleeping alone. Or how the house felt too big without her laughter in it. He just wrote back, short and steady, every day:

"I miss you. I'm proud of you. I'll be here when you're ready."

Three months in, Ellie was offered a speaking engagement—her biggest yet. She stood before a room full of strangers, reading from a story about Jack, about the man who taught her what staying really meant.

She cried as she read it.

After the applause faded, she walked outside, called Jack, and said the words she'd been holding close:

"I think it's time to come home."

And Jack, without hesitation, replied, "I never stopped waiting."