Chapter Text
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･ epilogue ༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･Song for this chapter: The days ( Notion remix) by CHRYSTAL ༄˖°.🍂.ೃ࿔*:･
I wake up because the sun has decided that I’ve slept enough.
It’s already bright enough to feel personal, pouring through the thin curtains like it’s got somewhere to be and I’m in the way. Barry is asleep at my feet, belly up, paws twitching. He looks like he’s lost a fight with gravity.
I stretch, swing my legs out of bed, and pause.
Two socks.
Both feet.
I stare at them for a moment, suspiciously. “Well,” I mutter, “this is already an unrealistic day.”
Downstairs smells like warm wood and last night’s paint water. I pull on my hoodie anyway, because the countryside may be sunny but it’s also judgemental, and step outside. The grass is dry, buzzing with insects. Somewhere, l can hear birds chirping.
Pickles and Apples are already in their stables, heads over their doors like they’re waiting for a bus. Pickles’ ears flick when he sees me. Apples makes a small, hopeful noise that suggests breakfast is overdue by at least twelve seconds.
“Yes, yes,” I say. “I know. Starving. Tragic.”
Pickles eats like the ladies at the elf dinner. Apples eats like she’s worried the food might escape. When I turn away, Apples nudges my elbow gently, then freezes, pretending she hasn’t done anything at all.
Lessons start mid-morning. It’s hot but not unbearable, the kind of summer day where the air hums lazily. Pickles carries his rider with the solemn patience of someone doing a very important job. Apples stations herself by the fence again, shadowing the lesson with intense focus.
When the rider trots, Apples trots in place.
When they halt, Apples halts.
When they circle, Apples turns her head dramatically, as if imagining herself in the arena instead.
“She’s very committed,” the rider says.
“She’s very independent ,” I reply. “Only works when she feels like it.”
At lunch, I sit in the shade with a sandwich and my sketchbook. Apples lowers her head onto my shoulder, slowly, carefully, like she’s worried I’ll notice and stop her.
I notice.
I don’t stop her.
When I head back to the cottage, I find something new.
On the kitchen table, exactly centred like someone measured it, is a necklace. Fine silver chain. A pendant shaped like a tiny shooting star, faintly glowing. Warm against my palm.
I sigh, smiling despite myself. “You really don’t do subtle, do you Florin?”
Barry sniffs it, decides it’s not edible, and sits on it.
The afternoon is for painting. I work with the windows open, summer breeze carrying the smell of hay and wildflowers. Pickles sticks his head in once, snorts at my easel, and leaves, clearly unimpressed with modern art.
Evening comes slow and peaceful . I finish the last checks at the stables. Apples follows me to the gate and stops there, ears forward, watching the fields like she’s waiting for something.
“Nothing exciting’s happening,” I tell her. “I checked.”
She flicks an ear. Could be disagreement. Could be optimism.
Back at the cottage, I sit on the front step, both socks still miraculously intact, watching the sky fade into purples and pinks. The necklace catches the last light, glowing softly against my hoodie.
I don’t chase the magic anymore.
It finds me when it wants to.
Pickles shifts in his stall. Apples lets out a contented huff. Barry appears beside me, demanding attention and possibly food.
I scratch his head, lean back against the doorframe, and smile.
Life is good.
And somewhere, Florin is there, watching out for me.