Chapter Twenty-Six: Coming Home

The first snow of the season had just dusted Dalton when Ellie returned.

She stepped off the train, suitcase in one hand, camera around her neck, heart in her throat. Jack was waiting—standing exactly where she'd last seen him, same worn jacket, same steady eyes.

She dropped her bag and ran to him.

They held each other on the platform while the town went on around them. No words, just warmth. Just home.

Later, they drove through town, past the bakery, the diner, the old oak tree where they'd said their vows. Everything was the same, and yet it felt new again.

Jack pulled into the driveway and turned to her. "I kept it all the same. Just added some shelves in your studio for your new books."

Ellie laughed. "You knew I'd come back."

He nodded. "Always did."

Inside, the fire was already lit. Her favorite blanket was on the couch. And there, on the kitchen table, sat a pie—lemon lavender, just like their wedding.

"You baked?" she asked, surprised.

"I tried. Clara supervised."

They spent the evening wrapped in each other, slow dancing in the kitchen again, falling asleep under the soft hum of home.

The next morning, Ellie unpacked. Not just clothes—but her life. Her notebooks, her framed photos from New York, her voice recorder, and the pen Jack had gifted her before she left.

That afternoon, they walked to the edge of the Lawson land. Snow clung to the trees, and the sky was a pale gray wash.

"I was thinking," Ellie said, "maybe I write something new. Not just stories about Dalton. Something about us. About what it means to love through distance, and storms, and seasons."

Jack looked down at her. "You already are."

And so, with her hand in his, Ellie began again—not from scratch, but from solid ground. A love not born in haste, but built with time, trial, and trust.

Because sometimes coming home isn't about returning to a place.

It's about returning to a person.

And in Jack's arms, beneath a sky ready to snow, Ellie knew: she had finally come home for good.