Chap­ter 238 began with Patch feel­ing emo­tion­al­ly worn and phys­i­cal­ly drained as he sat motion­less on the long-haul bus, his hunger gnaw­ing at him like a slow-burn­ing ember. Each pass­ing minute felt stretched thin, elon­gat­ed by exhaus­tion and a mind too full to rest. When the dri­ver pulled over at Rowan Bridge, the scent of warm diesel and night air filled the bus, and a woman board­ing briefly caught his attention—her gaze steady and famil­iar, as though she’d known him from a life already lived.

The thought of get­ting off surged in his chest, yet he remained seat­ed, anchored by some­thing deep­er than fatigue—something close to resolve. As she dis­ap­peared down the aisle, the impulse passed, and he sat in silence while the oth­ers shuf­fled off for cof­fee and cig­a­rettes. Warm air drift­ed through the open win­dow, brush­ing his face gen­tly as he stared into the dark­ness beyond, let­ting his thoughts drift far from the real­i­ty of the hour.

By the time the sky start­ed to pale, Patch was step­ping off the bus once again. The ear­ly light of morn­ing paint­ed the road­side in pale amber tones, and the world began its qui­et stir—birds call­ing, engines hum­ming faint­ly, the dis­tant bark of a dog lost in the trees. His small can­vas bag, which held the few items he still con­sid­ered essen­tial, tugged at his shoul­der as he exhaled and scanned the hori­zon ahead.

Montgomery’s sil­hou­ette loomed in the dis­tance, crowned by the proud dome of the state capi­tol, a land­mark as unmov­able as his­to­ry itself. He remem­bered read­ing about the city’s past, marked by both civ­il strife and courage, won­der­ing how it might shape the peo­ple who called it home. But today, the city was just a waypoint—a place to pass through qui­et­ly, with­out leav­ing a trace.

After catch­ing one last local ride, Patch leaned into the curved frame of the seat, his head rest­ing against the cold glass, count­ing the breaths between each bump in the road. The hum of the engine was steady, offer­ing a kind of rhythm that calmed the thoughts swirling in his chest. He tried to close his eyes, but images of faces, let­ters, and mem­o­ry frag­ments flick­ered behind his lids like dim lanterns refus­ing to go out.

When he final­ly stepped down again, the land felt dif­fer­ent beneath his boots—softer, some­how more alive. He pulled out the creased map from his bag, its cor­ners worn and the ink fad­ed in places where he’d fold­ed and unfold­ed it too many times. A deep breath filled his lungs, laced with dew and the scent of pine, as he began walk­ing the last few miles on foot, deter­mined to reach a place he’d only ever seen in sto­ries and dreams.

At last, he reached the edge of a wood­en sign, half-wrapped in vines but still read­able. He reached out and brushed his fin­gers across the worn let­ter­ing: “Grace Falls.” The tex­ture was rough, almost splin­tered, and it ground­ed him in the moment, remind­ing him that every step he had tak­en had led exact­ly here.

What he saw ahead stirred some­thing in him. The road curved gen­tly down­hill, flanked by trees heavy with blos­soms, their petals trem­bling in the morn­ing breeze. For a long time, he stood still, star­ing not just at the sign but at the pos­si­bil­i­ty that this town, like its name, could hold the answer—or at least the truth—he’d been chas­ing for years.

Each step for­ward felt delib­er­ate, like he was step­ping into a sto­ry already writ­ten yet unfin­ished. He thought of the peo­ple waiting—or hiding—within its bound­aries. What kind of wel­come he might find was unknown, but he had come too far to turn back.

Patch knew Grace Falls would not be just anoth­er town. It held the grav­i­ty of a final chap­ter or the first page of some­thing else entire­ly. Whether it would offer redemp­tion, res­o­lu­tion, or some­thing in between, he could no longer guess—but he had arrived, and that was enough, for now.