EPILOGUE — BOOK III
Still Walking
They walked without destination.
The route was familiar—streets that curved and dipped, the quiet stretch where the city loosened its grip before opening onto water. The afternoon was mild. The path was uncrowded, the air clear enough to carry sound without insisting on it.
They did
not talk about work.
They did not talk about health.
At a café, someone smiled at them in passing, the way people did when they recognised ease in others. No one asked questions. No one needed answers. They ordered coffee, sat for a while, then moved on without marking the moment.
Later, as the light shifted, they crossed the park together, falling into step without thinking about who had matched whom. Their shadows lengthened, then blurred, then disappeared altogether.
There was no ceremony to mark what they were now.
No declaration.
Just movement, side by side, unhurried.
They had chosen each other once, long ago—by chance, by circumstance, by a shared willingness to stay when staying was easier than leaving.
They were still choosing each other.
And that, they had learnt, was enough.
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