Chapter 137 begins with Saint settling back into Monta Clare, where the small-town rhythms feel both familiar and bittersweet. On the front porch, her grandmother, ever a mix of charm and defiance, alternates between puffing on a cigarette and tooting an old harmonica. The racket prompts Saint to hush her, especially when their noisy antics stir complaints from the neighbor with a newborn baby. That moment of laughter and light reprimand underscores the bond they share—one rooted in years of shared history and quiet resilience. Inside the house, the piano waits, and as Saint’s fingers dance across the keys, Monta Clare finds peace in her music, even if he doesn’t say it aloud. Those brief melodies offer a kind of healing neither of them openly acknowledges, yet both deeply need. The harmony between them speaks more than words ever could, especially in a place that rarely changes.

Through the first month of her return, the snow blankets the streets and slows time. Monta Clare spends most days at the gallery, a condition of his parole and a source of mild frustration. Children stare longingly out school windows, praying for closures as snowflakes swirl like confetti. The gallery doesn’t bustle, but it gives Monta Clare something to do, even if the crowd is sparse. Every now and then, a curious guest wanders in, eyes drifting toward the paintings, asking awkward questions. Monta Clare always redirects them politely, suggesting bigger galleries, quietly keeping his own pride at bay. Sammy, never one to shy from sarcasm, jokes about Monta Clare’s ballooning debt, now well past two hundred grand. “You owe the system more than the town owes the snowplow,” Sammy quips with a grin. Monta Clare laughs, but the weight behind the joke isn’t lost on him.

When the snow begins to melt, signs of spring peek through the gray. Buds bloom along fences, and puddles reflect a sky slowly turning blue again. On a quiet afternoon, Monta Clare strolls to Green’s Convenience Store, hoping to warm up and maybe grab something sweet. Inside, he notices a young girl trying to pocket a candy bar—her eyes wide with both fear and defiance. He doesn’t scold her. Instead, he leans in and says, “If you’re going to steal, you better learn how not to get caught.” She looks confused, maybe a little amused. It’s a brief connection—odd, fleeting, and oddly familiar. He teaches her a quick trick with a sleight of hand, then tells her not to try it again. That moment reminds him of who he used to be and maybe, who he still is.

Back on the street, as the sunlight bounces off the wet pavement, Monta Clare walks through the alley behind the shop. Crocuses, bold and purple, push through cracks in the sidewalk—defiant signs of life in a place worn down by winter. He pauses near the corner, captivated by something in the window of a small boutique. There, beyond the glass, stands Misty Meyer. Her posture is graceful, and though her cream-colored hat hides much of her face, he recognizes her instantly. The sight of her takes the breath from his lungs—her figure as familiar to him as any sketch he’s drawn. Her mother stands beside her, gesturing animatedly, but Monta Clare sees only Misty.

As she turns, her face catches the light. For a second, their eyes lock. Her smile appears, not big, not showy, but genuine—and time slows for Monta Clare. In that instant, he isn’t thinking of debts or parole or snowy sidewalks. He’s just a man standing in the spring air, reminded of a girl who once made him believe he could be more than his past. The streets are thawing, but so is something inside him. Misty’s presence, like the first bloom after a long winter, signals the beginning of something new or perhaps the return of something he thought was lost. In that small, magical exchange, the chapter closes not with action, but with the silent promise of change—something Monta Clare hasn’t dared hope for in a very long time.