The train ride back to Elowen Ridge was slower than Sera remembered. As the landscape blurred past—rolling hills, thick forests, familiar rust-colored barns—her heartbeat quickened. She hadn't seen Lina in months. Not since the day she'd left with only a backpack and a heart full of purpose.
Now she was returning with a suitcase, a vision, and the promise of something bigger.
She stepped off the train and was immediately greeted by the cool, earthy scent of Elowen's early spring. The station was nearly empty except for one person—Lina, in a forest-green coat, holding a bouquet of freshly cut moonflowers.
"I figured you'd like a soft welcome," Lina said, smiling.
Sera laughed through the tears already stinging her eyes. "I think I needed it."
They hugged, and the rest of the world melted. For that moment, there was no network, no speech, no weight of responsibility—just two women, and the pull of home.
Later that night, they walked hand in hand to the greenhouse. It had changed. The roof had been reinforced, the fairy lights now solar-powered. In the center stood a long wooden table covered with fresh produce, homemade candles, and tiny painted place cards.
"You kept the table," Sera whispered.
"I added to it," Lina said. "More people come now. And every time they sit, they know your story."
Sera took in the sight of children laughing in the distance, older couples holding hands, and teens tracing constellations on the glass ceiling.
"You built a sanctuary," she said.
"We both did," Lina replied. "You just had to go first."
The next morning, the award ceremony was held in the town's restored community center. Celeste's photo hung at the entrance—her eyes still full of fire. Sera touched the frame gently before stepping onto the stage.
Lina sat in the front row. Ivy had made the trip too, her hair dyed blue now, her camera hanging around her neck.
Sera looked out at the crowd.
"When I left Elowen Ridge, I didn't know if I'd ever return. I was scared. Angry. Determined. What I found out there wasn't just hurt—it was hope. Quiet hope. The kind that grows in shadows. The kind that takes root in broken places. The kind that—when nurtured—blooms in ways you never expect."
She took a breath.
"This award belongs to every young person who never felt safe. Every girl who kissed a girl in secret. Every boy who wore makeup and got punished. Every nonbinary kid who didn't have the words but always had the knowing. You are not too much. You are just enough."
Applause thundered through the room.
When it quieted, she stepped down, walked straight to Lina, and took her hand.
"Let's go home."
That night, Sera stood in the greenhouse once more. The table was full, moonflowers glowing in jars along the walls. Laughter rose like music. Ivy passed out cupcakes with lavender frosting. Marcus, the newest member of Havenlight, performed a spoken word poem that left the room in tears.
And Lina—Lina danced barefoot, pulling Sera into the center as music drifted through the open windows.
As they spun together, the world finally aligned. Not perfect. But possible.
Sera leaned in and whispered, "I'm staying this time."
Lina smiled. "I know."