Page 100 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

40

FINN

The first thing I notice is the quiet — not silence, because Moonhaven has never been silent. The harbour is already awake when I arrive, workers moving along the docks, fishermen preparing their boats, merchants negotiating over cargo, children racing through the streets in the early morning light. Life continues in the way it always has, and yet something fundamental has shifted. The panic is gone. The fear that used to sit beneath everything, underneath every interaction and every glance toward the sky, is finally gone. The storm is gone.

I stand at the edge of the harbour and watch sunlight dance across the water. Several weeks have passed since Aldric's arrest, and the wounds remain — some always will. Families still grieve, homes still need repairs, and parts of the harbour remain under construction. Healing takes time. But healing is happening, and somehow, that feels like a miracle.

"You're smiling," a voice says behind me.

I don't need to turn around to know who it is. "I do that occasionally," I reply, grinning anyway.

Reina appears beside me. "Rarely," she says, and the accusation sounds suspiciously confident.

I place a hand over my chest. "Wounded."

"You'll survive," she replies, unbothered.

"I appreciate your faith in me." A laugh escapes her at that, and the sound does what it always does — catches somewhere in my chest and stays there. The woman has absolutely no idea what she does to me, or perhaps she does, which is a thought that worries me slightly.

Reina follows my gaze toward the harbour. The newly repaired docks stretch across the waterfront, workers moving between them with supplies, the town having thrown itself into rebuilding not because it had to but because it wanted to. The difference matters more than most people understand.

"It looks good," she says quietly, and when I glance toward her I find she isn't looking at the harbour at all. She's looking at the people — the same people who once crossed the street to avoid her, the same people who spent years whispering behind her back, blaming her for things she never did. A fisherman nearby notices her and raises a hand in greeting.

"Morning, Reina."

The greeting catches her unaware. I see it happen — the brief surprise, the tiny hesitation — before she smiles and returns it. "Morning," she replies, and the fisherman grins broadly before continuing toward his vessel. The interaction lasts only a moment, but I know what it means. Because there was a time when it never would have happened. The realization settles warmly in my chest. Moonhaven finally sees her — not the stories, not the rumours, but the actual woman standing beside me. And about damn time.

By midday, most of the town has gathered near the lighthouse. The sight would have terrified Reina a few months ago, but today she stands proudly beside the entrance with Lisa on one side and Iris on the other. Row stands nearby looking painfully uncomfortable in formal clothing, which makes the entire experience worthwhile. I nudge him with my shoulder.

"You look ridiculous," I tell him.

He glares with the full force of his personality. "I hate you."

"You say that every week," I point out.

"One day I'll mean it," he replies, but his mouth is doing the thing it does when he's trying not to smile.

I grin at him. "You'll have to get in line." He opens his mouth to respond, but then notices his mother approaching and — immediately, miraculously — behaves himself. I stare. The transformation is remarkable.

The lighthouse behind us looks beautiful, the fresh stone and new glass and repaired foundations erasing nearly all evidence of the damage the storm caused. More importantly, it belongs to Reina again, where it should have belonged all along. Gideon steps forward and the gathered crowd gradually quiets around him, several visitors still in town after the festival disaster, most of them wanting to witness the ceremony.

"We spent years believing the wrong story," Gideon begins, and several people in the crowd lower their eyes. He continues without pause. "Many of us owe Reina an apology." The statement hangs heavily over the crowd, and nobody argues, because nobody can. The truth has already had its say.

He gestures toward the lighthouse. "This town still stands because of her." A wave of agreement moves through the gathered people, and the sight visibly overwhelms Reina. She tries to hide it and fails completely, and Lisa — who notices everything — shifts almost imperceptibly closer to her.

A fisherman near the front raises his voice. "My family would've drowned."

A merchant beside him nods. "My son too," he says, and others begin speaking one after another, stories and gratitude and memories spilling forward until the crowd grows louder and warmer and something that could only be described as real. Not forced, not performed — real. Reina stands completely still through all of it, as though she's afraid the moment might disappear if she moves too quickly, and the sight nearly breaks my heart. Because she deserved this years ago, not now. And yet watching it happen still feels wonderful.

Gideon eventually raises both hands and the crowd settles, and then he turns toward her with an expression that, on his face, constitutes the warmest thing I've ever seen him offer. "The lighthouse belongs under your leadership," he says simply.

Applause erupts instantly. Reina laughs, and the sound breaks halfway through as emotion catches her completely off guard. Good. Let it. She has earned every second of this, and the applause continues — long, loud, unapologetic — while Moonhaven finally welcomes her home.

The rescue station sits near the harbour entrance, and the building isn't large, but it doesn't need to be. What matters is what happens inside it — emergency response, storm rescue, harbour protection, a permanent team with permanent equipment and permanent readiness. The town council approved the proposal almost immediately. Apparently surviving catastrophe does wonders for funding decisions. Who knew.

I stand near the entrance examining a freshly painted sign when Row appears beside me. "Still staring at it?" he asks.

"I built this," I tell him, with the dignity the moment deserves.