Page 75 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
Then he says, quietly, “Why do stories have to end?”
I look at him, and he’s watching the sky like maybe the stars will answer first.
“Because... if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be stories,” I say carefully.
“But what if it’s a good one?” he asks, frowning. “What if it’s the kind you wanna keep reading forever?”
My chest tightens.
“I think,” I say slowly, “good stories don’t end. Not really. They just... change chapters.”
He mulls that over. “Like... they grow up?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Exactly like that.”
He turns to me, lips quirking. “So are you in a new chapter now?”
I feel it then—that strange, warm clarity that sneaks in through the cracks when your guard is down. The kind that doesn’t arrive in grand gestures or phone calls from New York, but in quiet benches and questions from kids who haven’t learned how to be scared of the answers yet.
“I think I am,” I say.
Jamie nods solemnly, then leans into my arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Good. I like this one better.”
And just like that, something inside me lets go.
Not everything.
Just enough to make room for what comes next.
CHAPTER 28
AERON
Lantern Night comes in slow and thunderless, the kind of evening that doesn’t feel like a grand finale but something older—quieter, heavier with meaning. The wind’s calm for once, brushing in from the sea like it knows better than to make a mess of things tonight. There’s salt in the air, sweetened by cinnamon fritters frying three stalls down, and the sky’s already bleeding gold into violet by the time I finish adjusting the last tie on the western railing.
The air feels thick with memory. The wood beneath my boots creaks just so, soft groans soaked in years of storms and bonfires, kisses and confessions and all the damn things people try to forget under festival lights. I pause, let my hand rest on one of the newer planks, its grain still coarse and sun-bleached, and I can almost feel the weight of the town pressing in through it—hopes nailed down with every board.
I stand back, breathing in woodsmoke, salt brine, and festival sugar. There’s laughter in the air too, rising and falling in bursts. Kids dart between legs with streamer tails trailing from their pockets, and old Mr. Hale is already half into his second cider, winking sloppily at Marla, who pretends not to notice while she hawks candied mussels.
The crowd’s thick now. Lanterns swing from every post, each one glowing from the inside out, painted with monsters and names and little scribbled wishes scrawled in wax crayon and pen. Some of them flicker like they’re alive. Some sway like they’re listening.
A group of musicians huddled near the coffee stall begins to play—low, plaintive fiddle over the quiet pulse of a bodhrán. It’s not stage music, it’s porch music, memory music. The kind you don’t dance to, just drift inside. Children shriek down the docks with buckets full of glowing algae scooped from tidal pools. Teenagers lean against posts pretending they aren’t watching each other. It all feels... suspended. Like we’re living inside the lanterns themselves, soft and fragile and lit from within.
Drokhaz elbows me as he passes, grinning. “You’re pacing again.”
“I’m not pacing,” I mutter, even though I am.
He just snorts and nods toward the docks. “Maybe stop waiting and start walking.”
But I don’t move.
Because I don’t know if I’m walking toward something or waiting for it to be taken away.
The truth is, I’ve been holding my breath since yesterday. Since she told me she needed time. Since the call came. Since she looked at me with eyes full of history and hesitation and something deeper than either of us was ready for.
I haven’t asked what she’s going to do.
I won’t.
