Christine had finally settled into her life on the farm. Madame's passing had left her enough money to buy it, along with a cow, a few chickens, and some seed. With Mamma Valerius gone, there was nothing in France except reminders of the life she used to have, traces of the ghosts who had once filled her life with so much joy she felt she could burst from it. Now, only deep despair remained, and a hole in her heart that was once filled by singing.
Recognizing that she had no talents outside of music and the farm work she did before she and Pappa left Sweden and began wandering, Christine decided to return to her roots. She moved what meagre belongings she had to the small town of Motala, and there she established her new way of life.
Being in her homeland gave her some comfort, as did the company of the animals she cared for. She did not need much, only enough to sustain herself. She worked herself to exhaustion during the day and cried herself to sleep at night, when she could no longer distract herself from her grief. She knew that coming here was the right thing to do, yet that did not make her losses any easier to bear.
Days passed, then months, finally years. Christine settled into a comfortable, quiet routine. She did not reach the heights of joy she once had, yet there was nothing here to drag her to the depths of despair, either. She would spend her time working, reading, and taking in the landscape around her. This last bit was the most healing for her soul, for it reminded her of the ones she loved without bringing any additional pain. There were the lingonberry bushes that brought back taste memories of the jam that she used to make with her father. There were the cornflowers – Mamma Valerius's favorites, the ones that the Professor would always bring her when she was feeling low. There were the towering pines that smelled of Raoul and his adventurous spirit. And finally, there were the fireflies. Lighting up the darkness the way her Angel once lit up her soul. She had returned to that dark place, but the fireflies gave her hope.
It was five years into her life in Motala that it finally happened.
She was milking her cow, Marguerite. About five minutes in, Marguerite turned her large, doleful eyes up at Christine, something she only did when Christine was speaking to her. But Christine knew she had not been speaking. It was only as she started listening that she heard it, faint lyrics of the aria in Hannibal. She was singing. She was singing! Her heart filling, soul soaring, Christine opened herself to the joy of it. She sang for herself, for Marguerite, for her many ghosts. Six years of silence, and she was finally home.
Christine smiled.