Epilogue

As life tends to do, weeks turned into months. Life for Allison and Spud returned to normal, if portals and talking animals counted as normal. Allison couldn’t say whether they met anyone else’s definition, but they had become part of hers. She’d returned to Dreamspace many times, and the journey had settled into a comfortable habit. On weekends especially, she stepped through the portal as casually as if she were heading out for the evening, visiting friends, sharing meals, watching movies, and playing games. Dreamspace had become her home away from home.

And Felipe, Sol, and Thimble visited Allison’s side of the portal just as often. 

Felipe, the resident foodie, was known to sneak in at night while everyone slept, filling Allison’s fridge with handcrafted meals or surprising her with a piping-hot breakfast on the kitchen table. He insisted she couldn’t do her best work on an empty stomach, and a simple cup of coffee was nowhere near enough to keep her creativity flowing. She often woke to platters of eggs, baskets of warm tortillas, fresh fruit, refried beans, and an array of his most flavorful salsas, alongside her favorites: bacon, breakfast potatoes, and pancakes. He took keeping her well fed seriously and considered it a great honor.

Thimble took Allison completely under her wing, becoming the mentor she had always been meant to be. A few times a week, she packed her satchel with treats, books, and scrolls, then traveled through the portal for afternoon tea and a lesson in Dreamspace, magic, or Sparkkeeper history. Allison brewed a pot of tea and filled the vintage tiered dessert stand she’d thrifted from a nearby shop especially for their sessions.

Dear, sweet Sol became Allison’s own version of Commander Data from Star Trek, which, oddly enough, she’d wanted ever since watching the show with her dad as a child. They grew as close to Allison as Felipe and Thimble had. Through their regular time together, Sol learned more about human beings than they ever had. They had no desire to become human and were tremendously proud to be an android, but something had always felt missing: a deeper understanding of humanity. They had craved it for as long as they could remember. Now, everything Sol had hoped for was finally within reach.

Looking at Allison now, no one would have guessed how new this life still was: slipping back and forth through a portal she could conjure almost instantly, visiting friends in a fantastical realm she had once only dreamed of, and taking magic lessons from a talking raccoon. She had taken to it all so naturally. The role, the magic, the friendships, the skills; they suited her, as though she had been preparing for this her entire life. 

It was undeniable to Allison and everyone around her: she was the Sparkkeeper. Outside Dreamspace, her family, friends, and clients saw the change as a return of the confidence they had always hoped she would reclaim. She no longer shrank herself to fit the world. She had learned she could take up all the space she needed, and that the world had more than enough room for her exactly as she was. Confidence now radiated through everything she did.

Her writing was no exception. Allison never set down her pen or silenced her creative voice again. Instead, she rediscovered the joy she had lost so many years ago. At the urging of her Dreamspace friends, she went a step further and started a blog, a place to share everything she had ever wanted to say, feel, or explore with anyone willing to linger and read. She posted poetry from her teenage years, op-eds, political commentary, reflections on causes close to her heart, and intimate accounts of living through and surviving trauma. It became more than a home for her words. It was a public journal, a place to heal and find the community she had so desperately needed.

By mid-September, a crisp breeze had settled in, though the days were still warm enough for long sleeves without a jacket. Allison headed to Lincoln Square to people-watch and write outdoors. Something about the town’s gentle bustle loosened her thoughts, and she loved sitting among it. 

Lincoln Square was more than a sidewalk lined with shops. It was a true town center, built for wandering, lingering, and gathering around its restaurants and generous outdoor seating. Wide walkways paved with classic red brick wrapped around every corner, many engraved with the names of those who had supported restoration projects throughout the historic town. Along one side, a stage hosted local musicians most weekends.

On the way, she stopped at the Jagged Cliff for a pumpkin spice latte because, basic bitch spooky season, right? She chuckled at her own cringiness, but she knew exactly who she was and was one hundred percent fine with it. Besides, she needed a boost of magic bean juice for what she was about to undertake: a novel about Dreamspace, the ooze, the portal, and everything that had happened on the fateful day her life changed forever.

Thimble, Sol, and Felipe had needed quite a bit of convincing to get her here. Allison wasn’t a novelist. She had never attempted anything like this before. Latte in hand, she shook her head as she walked, remembering her conversation with Thimble a few days earlier.

“Who would even believe it?” she had asked her friends, balking at the very idea of such a ridiculous task.

Thimble had merely shaken her head. “Look, no one needs to believe it if you write it like a fantasy novel. Have fun with it. The story is budding within you. I can feel it. I can feel your desire to write it all down. I believe in you. You need to believe in you.”

Allison had nodded. “You’re right. The last thing we need is another ooze, especially since the barrier is almost fixed. I’ve never done anything like this before, but we all started somewhere, right?”

“Right,” Thimble had said with a brisk, encouraging nod. “You have the skills; you’ve made the professional connections to make this happen. And lots of help on this side of the portal whenever you need it.”

The rest is history, as they say. 

Once Allison settled beneath a tree, her latte beside her, journal balanced on her lap, and Spark Quill in hand, the words came easily. They rushed from her as though they had been trapped behind a dam, waiting all this time to spill free. 

Every so often, the current slowed enough for her to sip her coffee between sentences. During one of those pauses, she looked around the square and watched the people drift past. She had always enjoyed people-watching, though she rarely made time for it. 

A group of people she guessed were tourists stopped at the Lincoln statue outside the Wills house on the corner to her right. They took pictures, checked their map, then continued toward Baltimore Street. As they passed, a cool breeze swept through the square, carrying a small flock of perhaps fifteen pigeons. Some were brown and white, some piebald, and others the familiar iridescent gray with dark bars across their wings. They bobbed their heads and pecked at the bricks for crumbs passersby left behind.

Another group approached, and their children, delighted by the birds, chased them away, as children so often did. Every pigeon scattered except one, which crouched low against the ground. Its feathers were white with pale gray patterns across the wings, while brown feathers mingled with the white along its neck. The coloring was darkest at the base and faded as it climbed, leaving the bird’s head entirely white. 

Allison smiled at the unusual coloring. A moment later, the pigeon’s little orange legs unfolded beneath it, and it stood again. 

She bent down and slowly extended a hand, hoping for a Disney-princess moment with the bird. “Hey, you ok there, little buddy? Not hurt, are you?”

The pigeon looked up and tilted its head before returning to its pecking.

Allison shook her head, smiling. “Good. Glad you’re ok.”

She straightened, took another sip of her latte with one hand, and resumed writing with the other.

Allison was halfway through a sentence when something prodded her shoe. She glanced down. The pigeon was still there, pecking at her. That was odd. 

“No food here, my guy. Just coffee and paper.” She nodded toward a couple eating at an outdoor table across the street. “They have fries. Maybe they’ll give you a snack.”

The pigeon shook its body and fluffed its feathers.

“Hmm, no? Ok. Hang out then. Enjoy. It’s a lovely day,” she said before taking another sip of her latte and returning to her work.

A few minutes later, the pigeon fluttered onto the bench beside her and began pecking at her arm.

“Hey, look,” she said, firm but gentle, “that’s not very nice. I don’t have anything to eat; I’m just writing, but I need to get back to it.”

The pigeon lifted its right wing to its beak and made a sound remarkably like someone clearing their throat.

Allison immediately suspected this was no ordinary city pigeon. The last thing she needed was to look like she was losing her marbles in the middle of town, but before she could dismiss the thought, the pigeon cleared its throat again and spoke.

“Hey, uh, you Allison?” they said. Their voice was far deeper than any pigeon’s should be, and scratchy from disuse.

“I guess so,” she whispered, hoping no one else could hear.

“Well, are you or not?” The pigeon cocked its head impatiently.

“Yes. yes. I’m Allison.”

“The name’s Larry. Thimble told me I could find youse here,” he said in a distinct Delco accent.

Allison closed her eyes, pressed a palm to her forehead, and tilted her face up. “Holy cat on a cracker with cheese. What now?”