ISN'T SHE LOVELY | hs

EPILOGUE 1

Trigger warning: mention of death by overdose

| HARRY |
Sunday 21st May, 2028

For pretty much most of my life, the concept of karma is something I've been aware of, but not something I ever really put all that much serious belief in.

I would throw the word around flippantly, threaten my sister with the negative side of it whenever she'd wind me up, steal my stuff, or laugh at me if I accidentally mispronounced a word, and cross my fingers Mum would experience it positively and in abundance, given how much kindness and joy she spreads wherever she goes as easily as she breathes. I'd even use it to keep myself in check, which worked. Potential powers showing proof of their existence prevented me from getting too grouchy with trainee baristas, slow walkers or long queues, just in case it was real and I'd soon suffer for being a dickhead.

I never did quite manage to remember there could be repercussions when giving the middle finger to idiot drivers, though. Oh well.

But as I stand beneath a very special wonky willow tree, and an equally special tree stump ahead of me - my heartbeat steady, palms cool and breaths even - I know I was wrong to spend so long not taking karma seriously.

Then again, I also know I couldn't do such a thing a moment sooner than I did. I had to wait for magic personified to waltz her starry self into my life made rainbow by her colourful ways before I could not only believe it existed, but that I was deserving of the good kind. The best, in fact.

And God, do I believe. Which is all thanks to Mickayla 'Riot Girl' Addams, soon-to-be Mickayla 'Riot Girl' Addams-Styles.

That is if she doesn't do a runner, of course.

Oh fuck. What if she does a runner?

Words spoken in a low, drawling timber I hadn't known five years ago, yet one I'm all too familiar with now, pull me from my spiralling mind. The same can be said for the deep-brown eyes anchored by crows feet, the streak of silver running through jet-black hair, and a smile so friendly, it could probably bring about world peace if sent to the right people.

"Not much longer now, kid," Michael says, his expression sympathetic for my current nervous state.

Yet the excitement I know he feels beams enough that I feel it, too. Let it calm me down. When paired with his easy-going, almost hippie-esque nature, it's damn near impossible not to be affected in such a positive way.

After taking a centering breath, cracking my neck and wringing my fingers, I give him a nod, because he's right. Not much longer now at all. And I can't fucking wait.

Michael chuckles quietly, winks as he claps me on the back, then leaves me to my thoughts. Which, of course, are all focused on Mickayla.

Five years ago last month, after a night of clubbing with a heavily pregnant love of my life - her idea, not mine; even if I did plant the seed - I got the crochet hat-wearing, smiley sun she drew up tattooed on me, which serendipitously matches the magic wand with sparks flying out of it I designed for her the year prior. We wandered to the Heath, watched the sun rise, and I sang Songbird to her while stroking our daughter cooking away in her belly.

The following year on the same April date, after a night of catching up on all the sleep parents miss when they've got an almost one-year-old, I proposed to Mickayla in the very same spot. Stevie was spending the night with her Grandma, so it was just us and the rising sun.

She said yes. And though I didn't doubt she'd give any other answer, I still responded with a relieved and watery-sounding, "Thank fucking God," as I slipped the amethyst and opal-encrusted engagement ring on the finger that had been bare for much too long.