(Malcolm)
Rain had returned by morning — soft, gray, endless. Malcolm drove back to Juniper Lane with the wipers ticking a slow rhythm, his thoughts keeping time with them. Eden sat beside him, silent, her hands folded around the locket she'd insisted he keep wearing.
The old woman's words had taken root overnight: Some fires don't kill everything. He kept hearing that line, wondering whether she'd meant love or guilt. Maybe both.
Mrs. Caldwell's house was smaller than he remembered, its porch crowded with windchimes and potted herbs. When she opened the door, she looked at them as if she'd been expecting them all along.
"You found something, didn't you?" she said.
Eden nodded. "The song finished itself."
Mrs. Caldwell smiled sadly. "Then the rest is ready to be heard."
She motioned them inside. The living room smelled of cedar and lavender. Every wall was lined with photographs — Raven Hollow through the years. She walked to a narrow cabinet and drew out a tin box, setting it on the table with a soft clink.
"People told the wrong story for a long time," she said, unwrapping the box. "My father worked the mill. He was there the night of the fire. He saw who ran from that porch with the can of kerosene."
Malcolm felt the air shift. "Who?"
Mrs. Caldwell pulled out a faded photograph. It showed a group of townspeople in front of the old schoolhouse — Lydia Moore in the center, smiling. Behind her, almost hidden, stood a man Malcolm recognized instantly: the mayor's son from the old records, Samuel Hodge.
"He was engaged to someone else," Mrs. Caldwell said. "Didn't like how Lydia taught the children songs from her church. Said it wasn't proper. When word got around that Charles Reed and Lydia were building a house together, Samuel took it as an insult. Pride does worse than hatred sometimes."
Eden whispered, "He started the fire."
The old woman nodded. "My father tried to stop him, but by the time they reached Hollow Lane, the porch was already burning. They found Charles near the back door, trying to reach her. Lydia was upstairs at the piano."
Malcolm swallowed hard. "And no one ever said."
"People needed the story quiet," she said softly. "The Hodges owned half the valley. They built the new school, the post office, the church roof. The fire was written off as an accident, and everyone moved on — except the house."
Eden's voice trembled. "So the house remembered for them."
Mrs. Caldwell met her eyes. "Houses keep the truth when people can't. That's why you were both called there — one of his blood, one of her song."
For a moment, none of them spoke. The rain drummed softly on the roof, steady as a heartbeat.
Malcolm reached for the photograph. "May I keep this?"
Mrs. Caldwell nodded. "It belongs to the house now."
They drove back to Raven Hollow in silence, the photograph resting on the dashboard, Lydia's smile blurred by age and light.
By the time they reached the Velvet House, dusk had fallen. The moment they stepped inside, the air felt charged again — warm, humming. The piano lid was open, the last note of The Promise still echoing faintly as if it had never stopped.
Malcolm placed the photograph on the mantel. "They deserve to be seen."
Eden touched his hand. "So do we."
He looked down at her, the flicker of the hearth reflected in her eyes. The house seemed to lean closer around them, listening, waiting.
For once, he didn't pull away from the feeling that rose in his chest — the ache, the recognition, the strange peace that followed. Whatever had burned in that house decades ago, it hadn't been only tragedy. It had been love strong enough to outlast flame.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere over the valley, but no rain fell. The candlelight shimmered blue for just a moment, then steadied into gold.