That night, after the last guest left and the stars glimmered like scattered lanterns, Corinne felt a peace so complete she could scarcely breathe. She whispered into the quiet, “I have lived well. I have loved well. That is enough.”
A year later, on a crisp spring morning, Corinne felt her strength fading. Augusta and Raymond were gone by then, both buried in the small cemetery behind the estate that overlooked acres of wheat fields. Delphine sat beside her bed. “I am here,” she said. “You are not alone.”
Corinne smiled weakly. “I have never been alone. Not since that day on the road.”
Her last thought was gratitude. Gratitude for the moment she chose to stop her car. Gratitude for the family she found. Her final vision was Augusta and Raymond waiting beneath the old oak trees, their arms open, light surrounding them like dawn breaking.
They buried her beside the Kellers, just as she wished. Her tombstone read, “Here rests Corinne Fletcher. She chose to stop.” The simplicity of those words held galaxies of meaning.