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.