Page 104 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“I like that,” I whisper. “But I was going to say that it feels like coming home.”

The next day, we do it all over again.

About a week after our trip to Maplehurst, I finish going through the farm’s books. I haven’t decided if I’ll take Logan’s money, but I do know that it might be my only choice to save my farm. Late that afternoon, he gets back to the house after another long, mysterious absence. Instead of kissing me or sinking to the couch, he tugs me toward the door.

“Let me show you something?” he asks.

Wordlessly, we pull on coats and scarves and walk hand in hand down the property, up the driveway, and past the equipment shed. In the golden light of late afternoon, the barn’s sharp crimson red has deepened to rust, the weathervane still as stone. The door is newly hung, the windows unbroken. But, inside, the dusty floors still hold memories—some that have dulled, some that have tangled, and, on the night of the gala, some that have multiplied.

That’s not what’s changed.

What’s changed is me.

Despite everything those walls hold, I don’t feel like running or shoving anything away. Not because any single emotion has dried up, but because now I understand what that pain is in the first place.

It’s a tree stump that left a half-moon scar on my elbow.

It’s a branch, pruned to the trunk.

My pain has marked me.

And why would I turn away from the proof that I’ve grown back?

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Logan says, startling me from my reverie. When I turn to him, he draws our joined hands into his chest, kisses the backs of my gloved knuckles. “Maybe the choice isn’t between distraction and stewing. Or at least, maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe what we need is both, simultaneously.”

“What’s both?”

He pauses. Then, without letting go of my hand, he rolls open the door. “Evolution.”

Inside, the smell of wood and fresh sawdust folds around me as my eyes slowly adjust to the low light. It takes a moment before I see it: on the back wall, an ornate design. The style is familiar—the same kind of cutouts that we saw at Lydia’s shop. Only here it feels alive, with carvings deep enough that butter-soft light threads through the seams of the barn’s wall, scattering lacework shadows across the floor. I step toward the mural, holding my breath as the design sharpens into focus.

Intricate patterns spill across the wood—pears, hearts, rabbits, butterflies—repeating until broken apart with faces. Martin’s exuberant grin. Val’s unmistakable frown. Mason, lips tilted in that half-sly smirk. A boyish face with wide, trusting eyes that must belong to Andrew.

And then, mine. Smiling, radiant, caught in a shaft of light that seems to move as I stare.

“Evolution?” I ask, transfixed.

He moves to my side, arm brushing against mine. “I wonder if sometimes the only way to get over something is to go through it. To face it. And, also, I’m thinking that maybe Mason was right.”

“Just don’t tell him,” I whisper. “About what, exactly?”

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip before responding. “That I’m always cleaning up other people’s messes.”

My lips twitch. “You’re just noticing that now?”

He grunts a laugh. “It’s always felt good to fix things. This barn, for example. My parents didn’t build it right the first time, and it felt good to spend those weeks making that right.”

“I remember,” I say.

“But because it feels so right, I’ve never really thought to try something else entirely.” He steps forward to run his thumb along one of the cutouts, blotting out the shaft of light, then releasing it again. “What would it mean not to fix it the way it should have been, but to do it over again for myself? To try it my way instead of theirs.”

Affection surges through my chest. I’m blown away the self-reflection it would take to see this in himself. But even more, I’m witnessing the edge of something I haven’t seen since we were teenagers and he sat on those hills with a pencil in his fingers, frowning at the trees.

“You know you’re not her,” I say softly.

He exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering. “More than that, I don’t have to keep being the person who cleans up her mess.” His chin dips and his thumb traces a half circle into the palm of his glove. “Although it didn’t come out quite how I’d envisioned it. I didn’t have all the right tools.”

I step closer to grab his hand. “Hey,” I say, and wait until he looks up. “You’re incredible. And this is art, Logan.”