Chapter Thirty:Full Circle

Summer returned to Dalton with wildflowers and warm winds.

June had just turned one, wobbling around the house like a drunk little explorer, always drawn to Jack's boots or Ellie's notebook. Her first word was "book," and Ellie cried for an hour when she said it.

Jack built her a tiny wooden chair beside Ellie's writing desk. "Figured she'd want a spot next to you," he said.

Dalton, as always, moved slowly. The bakery still smelled like cinnamon and stories. The oak tree in the square stood tall and proud. Life didn't rush in Dalton—it lingered, like laughter after a good joke.

One evening, as they sat beneath that same oak where they'd wed, Ellie flipped through an old photo album.

There was a picture of her and Jack the first week they met—awkward, distant, but with that unmistakable pull in their eyes.

She smiled. "We were strangers then."

Jack looked down at her, June on his lap. "But something in us already knew."

They were quiet for a moment. Then Jack cleared his throat.

"I was thinking," he said. "We plant something."

Ellie looked over. "Like what?"

"A tree. For June. Right here next to ours."

So they did.

The next morning, with neighbors watching and June clutching a yellow ribbon, they dug into the soft summer earth. Jack held the sapling, and Ellie packed the dirt gently around its roots.

"We'll watch it grow," Jack said, "the way we've watched each other."

Years from now, that tree would grow tall beside the old oak—two markers of love, of legacy, of time well spent.

Later that night, Ellie wrote in her journal:

Love isn't a finish line. It's a garden. And every season is another chance to bloom.

And in that garden—among roots and laughter and long looks that never grew old—Jack, Ellie, a

nd June lived fully, deeply, and well.