Epilogue — Summer 1999
Emma
The morning light was soft and golden, spilling through the kitchen window and catching the steam rising from the kettle. The flat smelled faintly of toast and coffee — our usual morning ritual. The radio murmured in the background, some cheerful presenter talking about traffic, life carrying on around us.
I was tying my hair back when Tommy came in, sleeves rolled to his elbows, two mugs of coffee in his hands. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd just run his fingers through it.
"Coffee, madam," he said, grinning as he passed one to me.
"Why, thank you, sir," I said, trying for formality, though my voice softened around the words.
He leaned against the counter beside me. "You working the morning shift again?"
"Mm-hm. Mrs. Wallis is still on holiday, so I'm in charge in the kitchen."
He smiled. "They're lucky to have you. You'll be running that place one day."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm fine where I am."
He tugged playfully at the hem of my shirt. "Don't forget — cinema tonight."
"As if I could," I said, smiling. "It's Saturday."
"Exactly. Non-negotiable."
He checked his watch, picked up his bag, and bent to kiss me — a quick, warm kiss that still made my heart lift, even after all this time.
"See you tonight," he said, flashing that same boyish grin that had undone me years ago. "Love you."
"Love you, too."
When the door closed behind him, the flat settled into its familiar quiet — the tick of the clock, the smell of toast, the hum of the city outside. I sipped my coffee and noticed the small envelope on the table. My name, written in his neat, careful handwriting.
I already knew what it would be: a note. He'd been leaving them for years — tucked into my lunch, hidden under my pillow, slipped between the pages of my recipe book.
I unfolded it and smiled.
Just because.
For the girl who still makes the world brighter just by standing in it.
Love forever — T.
My throat tightened. After all these years, he still found new ways to tell me he loved me.
I slipped the note into the back of my old recipe notebook — the one he'd given me that first Christmas. The cover was worn now, the pages speckled with flour and butter stains, but I still used it every day. My North Star necklace glinted in the morning light as I leaned down to tie my shoes. I hadn't taken it off in more than ten years.
Sunday afternoon
The park was quiet beneath a warm July sky. Tommy carried the picnic basket — the same one we'd used for years now — and the old checked blanket folded under his arm. We'd both worked that morning, but Sundays were our day.
We found our spot beneath the oak tree we'd claimed long ago and unpacked sandwiches, a flask of tea, and a few biscuits.
"This is just what I needed," he said, sinking down beside me. "Peace. Food. You."
"In that order?" I teased.
He grinned. "Close call."
We talked lazily about our week — his clients at the firm, the new sous chef at the hotel, Teddy's latest letter.
He'd finally graduated from the police academy in June. He'd joined because he wanted to make a difference after what had happened to me all those years ago. Hearing that used to twist something in my chest, but now it only filled me with quiet pride. Teddy had taken pain and turned it into purpose.
Harry Cooper had served his two years and moved away to Manchester after his release. People sometimes asked if I ever thought about him. I didn't. The past had softened into something distant — no longer a wound, just a scar that didn't ache anymore.
Tommy stretched out on the blanket, one arm behind his head, eyes half-closed against the sunlight.
"You ever look back and think," he said softly, "how far we've come? Since that first summer?"
I lay beside him, my head on his chest. "Sometimes. It feels like a lifetime ago."
"Feels like yesterday to me," he murmured. "You by the lake with Zoey. Me too nervous to speak."
I smiled. "You didn't need to say anything clever."
"Good thing, because I couldn't think of anything when I saw you" he said, and I felt his laughter move through me.
We fell quiet again, his fingers playing idly with the ends of my hair.
"You know what I love most about us?" he asked after a while.
"What?"
"That we still do all the little things. The cinema on Saturdays. The picnics on Sundays. The notes. We never stopped."
I looked up at him, tracing the line of his jaw. "And we never will."
He turned to me then, and kissed me softly — it was slow, familiar, but still enough to make the world tilt.
When the sun dipped lower, we packed up and walked home through the golden light. Our reflections flickered in the shop windows — two figures walking close together, laughing quietly.
Sometimes I hardly recognised myself — that girl I used to be, the one who didn't believe she was worth loving. But she'd found her way, because he'd stayed beside me every step of it.
That night, as we got ready for bed, I found another note waiting on my pillow.
Still my North Star.
I smiled, slid beneath the covers, and curled against him. His arm came around me automatically, warm and steady.
Outside, the city hummed softly, lights flickering through the curtains. Inside, there was only us — hearts in rhythm, laughter low, love constant.
It wasn't perfect. Life never was.
But it was real.
And it was ours.
And as I drifted toward sleep, the last thing I heard was his whisper against my hair —
"Forever."
Tommy
Sometimes, when the city's asleep and the light from the street slips through the curtains, I lie awake just watching her breathe. The girl who once stood by the lake, shy and unsure, now sleeping beside me — strong, steady, certain.
I think about everything we've been through, how every turn could have led somewhere else. But it didn't. It led me here. To Emma.
Sometimes, when she comes home from work, there's still a dusting of flour on her hands, and her laughter lingers in her voice when she teases me. And her eyes — they still have that same spark, the one that caught me all those years ago.
Every time I see it, I think to myself — I'd choose her again. A thousand times over. In every lifetime.
I still write to my parents sometimes. Birthday cards, Christmas cards, letters that never get an answer. I've been trying since that Christmas in '89, when I thought maybe enough time had passed for them to see things differently. But they never reply. Not once. I send the cards the cards anyway, every year without fail — for Mother, for Father, for my brothers. Maybe it's stubbornness, or maybe it's hope. I just can't bring myself to stop trying.
I reach for her hand beneath the covers, I find her fingers and she stirs just enough to smile in her sleep.
Outside, the world keeps turning. But here, in this quiet space we built together, everything is right.
Forever.
~End~