Chapter Twelve: Where We Kept the Light
After that day, nothing dramatic changed.
No grand declarations.
No fireworks.
But everything was warmer.
You brewed my tea without asking how I liked it.
I fixed the loose latch on the back door without telling you.
You left notes in the margins of books — for me to find.
I started writing little answers between the lines.
It was all so ordinary.
But somehow… sacred.
One evening, you lit a candle on the front desk.
Just one.
I raised a brow. “Power outage?”
You shook your head, smiling.
“No. I just wanted to see what we look like… when the lights are low and the world isn’t watching.”
So we sat there.
In quiet glow.
No sound but the tick of the clock and the whisper of pages turning.
I think that was the night I knew.
Not just that I loved you — I’d known that.
But that you were home.
Not the shop.
Not the tea.
Not even the story.
You.