Chapter 169 begins with Charlotte quietly flipping through her late mother’s recipe collection, each card a tangible memory, each ingredient a reminder of a past that still lingers in every corner of the house. The handwriting, slightly slanted and faded at the edges, makes her pause, as though hearing Misty’s voice whispering through the ink. Patch watches from the counter, holding a recipe for a strange dessert that involves baking ice cream—an idea that sounds more like a dare than a dish. They prepare it anyway, sharing laughter and confusion as the final result emerges from the oven, scorched and barely edible. Over bites of their odd creation, they joke about how the cookbook belongs in a time capsule, or better yet, locked in the basement to preserve Misty’s more “creative” culinary legacy.

Down in the basement, Patch shows Charlotte a part of his life she hasn’t fully seen before. The walls are covered in layered brushstrokes—unfinished paintings, half-erased sketches, and canvases heavy with both color and memory. It’s a space that speaks to his past, a kind of living museum of thought and feeling. Charlotte runs her fingers along the edges of one painting, then the next, trying to trace the story hidden beneath the oil and graphite. But soon, fatigue wins out. She quietly says she’s tired, and Patch leads her back upstairs. In her room, she curls beneath the ceiling, where soft stars glow against the dark, casting a muted light that makes everything seem dreamlike. She speaks softly, bringing up a girl she once heard about—someone from Patch’s past—whose mother he once saved. It’s a memory laced with reverence and mystery, leaving Patch unsure how much she truly understands.

As they talk, Patch is struck by Charlotte’s blend of curiosity and caution. She brings up her wish for a father, a desire that once filled her thoughts, but now comes with hesitation. She questions whether Patch is truly someone who can stay, someone permanent in a life that has already seen so many people come and go. Her observations hit him hard. She points out the absence of ties in his life, no deep roots, no clear sense of belonging. Then she turns to the topic of Saint and Sammy, asking about their place in his life and hinting at wounds she doesn’t fully voice. There’s an emotional tension in the room, something unspoken hanging in the air like static.

Then Charlotte shares a truth that Misty once told her—something that Patch hadn’t heard before. “If a heart breaks too badly,” she says, “it doesn’t love the same way again. It tries, but it can’t love as big.” The words settle heavily between them. Patch doesn’t respond right away. He thinks about Grace, about Misty, and about the fractured spaces inside himself. He wonders if Charlotte is right—if he’s trying to love her with a heart that’s still healing, still afraid. But he also realizes that love, even a broken kind, can still be powerful. Sometimes, showing up is what matters most.

As Charlotte finally drifts to sleep, her breathing slow and steady, Patch remains still beside her. He looks at her—not just as the child of someone he once loved, but as someone he’s beginning to see as his own. The room is quiet except for the gentle hum of a distant train and the soft ticking of the clock on the shelf. He leans in and whispers, though he knows she’s already asleep, “I’m not going anywhere.” It’s not a grand promise, but it’s a start. A vow built not on certainty but on intention—a thread of hope wrapped in all the messiness of what it means to be human.