EPILOGUE

AMANDA MOFOKENG CELE.

The room smells like firewood and cedar, the lingering warmth of the day still pressed into the walls, clinging to the corners as if it, too, refuses to leave. The night outside breathes slowly, respectfully, as though it understands what this moment means. I lie tangled against Mabutho, my bare leg draped over his, my cheek resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm beneath my ear.

His heartbeat is calm. Certain. Not hurried.
The kind of rhythm you build a life around. The quiet hum of night wraps around us, thick and gentle, a blanket more comforting than any words could be. Somewhere in the distance, an ember pops softly in the fire outside. An owl calls. Life continues—but softly now, like it's learned to lower its voice in our presence.