Chapter 162| What Grows Back
The vocational center opened its doors for the first time on a bright, unremarkable Tuesday, considerably less fanfare surrounding it than the schoolhouse’s own grand opening had drawn, and Allen found that fact quietly fitting — not every good thing this town built needed a crowd to matter.
Irene had taken to visiting the center’s fledgling combat-instruction wing most afternoons, offering informal coaching to a handful of young residents whose own considerable ambitions outpaced their formal training, and Allen found her there one evening, patiently walking a nervous teenager through a basic stance correction with none of her usual restless impatience.
"You’ve got good instincts," Irene told the boy, adjusting his footing with careful, deliberate hands. "Just need to trust them instead of second-guessing every single movement."
The boy nodded, flushing with visible, considerable pride at the praise, and continued through the remainder of the drill with noticeably steadier form, glancing toward Irene every few moves as though checking her reaction mattered more than getting the stance perfectly right the first time.
The boy nodded, flushing with visible, considerable pride at the praise, and Allen watched from the doorway a while longer before Irene noticed him, waving him over once the lesson concluded.
"You’re good with them," Allen said, once the last student had gathered his things and departed.
"I remember what it felt like," Irene said, some of her usual fire tempering into something quieter, more reflective. "Being told my own instincts weren’t worth trusting. My family spent years insisting I needed to be leashed, controlled, corrected constantly. It took considerable time to unlearn that, even after everything changed for me."
"You never talk about them much," Allen said gently. "Your family, I mean."
"Not much left to say," Irene admitted. "They made their choice about me a long time ago. I made mine about them, eventually, too. Doesn’t mean it stopped hurting completely. Just means I stopped waiting for it to change."
"You’ve come a long way," Allen said gently.
"I have," Irene agreed. "I like being able to hand some of that hard-won confidence to someone else, instead of keeping it locked up for myself."
They walked together back toward the town square, evening settling comfortably over Hegeville’s continued, considerable transformation, and found Everlyn tending her garden near its center, the small memorial plot beside it now blooming steadily with the flowers she’d promised, months earlier, would keep something alive there through every season.
"How’s it coming?" Allen asked, settling beside her.
Everlyn’s notepad appeared, pen moving in familiar, careful strokes. ’Slowly. Gardens don’t rush, no matter how much you want them to. But it’s coming.’
"Everything worth building usually is slow," Allen said, and felt Irene’s hand find his other side, the three of them settling into comfortable, considerable quiet as the evening deepened around them.
A few of the town’s younger residents wandered past the square, waving toward Allen and Irene with easy, familiar warmth, and Allen found himself, watching the small, genuine exchange, struck once again by how ordinary this kind of moment had become — a town that once eyed strangers with wary, exhausted suspicion now simply greeting neighbors on their way home for dinner.
’Do you ever think about the Wasteland?’ Everlyn wrote after a while, the question surfacing with visible, careful hesitation. ’The promise we made there. I know we haven’t forgotten it. I just wonder sometimes if it’s actually still waiting for us, or if too much time has already passed.’
Allen felt the familiar, uncomfortable weight of that unresolved promise settle in his chest, the same guilt that had first surfaced during their conversation about the tournament winnings months earlier. "I think about it," he admitted. "More than I probably let on. I don’t know when we’ll be ready to properly return. But I don’t think it’s the kind of promise that simply expires."
"Ancient Sorrow’s patient," Irene said quietly. "I don’t think a few years changes that, given how long she’d already waited before we ever arrived."
"I hope you’re right," Allen said.
Everlyn nodded slowly, some of her earlier hesitation easing at the reassurance, and wrote one final note before tucking her pad away for the evening. ’Someday. Just not yet. There’s still so much here that needs us first.’
"Someday," Allen agreed, and the three of them sat together a while longer in the gathering dusk, Hegeville’s own considerable, hard-won peace settling comfortably around them, one small, patient promise among several still waiting, quietly, for its own eventual time.
Vivian and Myria found them there as full evening finally settled in, the whole family gathering, for once, without any particular crisis demanding their attention, simply five people enjoying the rare, uncomplicated pleasure of a garden they’d built together, growing steadily more beautiful with every considerable, patient season.
"No emergencies tonight?" Myria asked, settling onto the grass beside them with a faint, genuine smile.
"None," Allen confirmed. "Just us."
"I could get used to that," Vivian said dryly, though her own relaxed posture suggested she meant it more sincerely than the joke implied.
Myria stretched out beside Allen, unusually unhurried for someone who typically carried at least three considerable tasks in her head at any given moment. "I left my tablet inside," she admitted, when Allen raised an eyebrow at the omission. "Deliberately. I decided this evening didn’t need it."
"That’s new," Allen said, genuinely surprised.
"I’m allowed to change," Myria said, mock-affronted, though her smile gave away how little offense she actually took. "Farrow knows how to reach me if anything urgent develops. Everything else can wait until tomorrow."
"Good," Vivian said. "You work too much."
"We all work too much," Myria countered, though she didn’t argue the underlying point.
They stayed there long after the last light faded, five people gathered around a garden that had, patiently and stubbornly, learned to bloom in ground the world had once written off entirely, and Allen let himself, for one quiet evening, simply exist inside the considerable peace they’d all fought so hard to build.
Someone eventually brought out a considerable pot of tea, and the evening dissolved into easy, meandering conversation — Irene recounting the vocational center’s latest considerable success story, Everlyn sketching out her next planting plans, Vivian and Myria trading quiet, satisfied observations about the town’s continued growth. Nothing urgent, nothing demanding, simply five people enjoying the rare, uncomplicated pleasure of an evening that asked nothing more of them than presence.
"I could get used to evenings like this," Allen admitted, watching the stars gradually emerge above Hegeville’s quiet, considerable skyline.
"Then let’s have more of them," Myria said simply, and the family settled into comfortable, grateful silence, one more ordinary, treasured evening added to the considerable, growing collection of everything worth remembering.