Angelina knelt, drawing her children close. Tears fell freely—not from shame, but from release.

Under the apple tree weeks later, blossoms drifting like snow, a preacher joined them.

Jonas and Angelina spoke simple vows.

“You are my home,” Jonas said quietly.

It was enough.

The cabin no longer echoed with solitude. It carried laughter, argument, work, and song.

Time moved forward. Summer deepened. Harvest approached. The children grew stronger in open fields. Town whispers softened without Virgil’s backing.