Here, finally, is the last chapter of this story. I'm actually glad I waited to write this because I had been stumped about how to finish it and had tried several versions, but series 5 episode 7 finally gave me my answer. This is a more melancholy ending than I had originally imagined, but I think it fits right now at least from Sister Julienne's perspective, which is how I started this story and how I had planned to finish it. I may add an epilogue later depending on how the story develops in the show, but for now this is where I'm leaving it. The 1961 part of this story is set after the events of CtM episode 5x07 and before the events of episode 5x08.

Autumn, 1958

She didn't know why she was here, really. The room was empty, save for the few sparse furnishings that had been there since before the young sister had arrived at Nonnatus House. The bed, the wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a small mirror and simple cross on the wall were all that remained in this small cell once occupied by the now former sister. There wasn't a logical reason to be here, Sister Julienne thought, but then, logic was difficult at a time like this. And so here she stood, in this simple, vacant space, filling up the emptiness with her own memories. Sister Bernadette didn't live here anymore.

It had been a week now. Seven days, and so many changes. Sister Bernadette was now Shelagh Mannion, soon to be Shelagh Turner. The doctor himself had informed Sister Julienne of the engagement, after clinic just the other day. His smile lit up his face as he told her the news, although there was also a strange hint of apology in his voice—and protection. Sister Julienne had hoped she would hear the news from Shelagh, but she hadn't seen her former sister since that day last week when they sat at opposite sides of Sister Julienne's desk. A few quick words exchanged. A heartfelt but awkward goodbye.

It was quiet in this room now. Of course, it would be. It hadn't been occupied for months. They couldn't keep it this way forever, she knew. It couldn't become a shrine. Of course, the building might not even be here much longer. They had received the condemnation notice, but they didn't know when the demolition would occur. Things were changing all around, and all Sister Julienne could do was stand here, hope for the best, and pray.

Autumn, 1961

Her chair was solid, as was her desk. Looking around at the wood-paneled walls of her cell, Sister Julienne couldn't help but think of how sturdy this place was. So constant, at least in the two and a half years since the sisters had relocated here. So solid that it had undoubtedly withstood countless storms over its decades of existence, including the recent one that brought Sister Evangelina back in its wake.

Life was full of hellos and goodbyes, it seemed. But the winds would blow, and the rains would fall, and Nonnatus House would stand firm. Leaning back in her chair, the sister sighed. This house was solid, but it seemed now that so much else was shaky.

The pictures on her desk had been hidden among her books for a few years, recently rediscovered and much perused. Smiling faces looked at her from the pages from three years previous. Summer, 1958. The church fete that, she now knew, had set in motion a chain of events that would forever change Nonnatus and its occupants' lives. Happy faces, dear friends, some seemingly unchanged now in the three years that had passed, some radically different. Sister Monica Joan was there, judging the baby show and smiling at a sea of bright young faces. There was Nurse Franklin, her usual bubbly self, now much the same but also profoundly altered by time and circumstance. And Nurse Miller, the shy young nurse who had grown in strength and confidence, and great trial and perseverance, now as her dear sister and novice, Sister Mary Cynthia.

There were faces that she hadn't seen for a while, too—Nurse Lee, having moved on to a different calling as a nurse. Jane, their earnest, shy orderly, now pursuing a nursing career and married life of her own. Other faces were here, as well. She recognized them as she flipped through the pictures, turning them in her hand , studying them, remembering. Doctor Turner, rumpled and kind-and young Timothy, a small boy then but now already a young man. And there, casting an unassuming glance at the camera that she didn't seem to expect to be there, was a face she hadn't seen in years, although she saw it almost every day. Sister Bernadette.

The face was the same, really—a little older now, more assured certainly, but still the same upswept spectacles. Still the same clear blue eyes—grey in the black-and-white photo-the same warm smile. No longer in habit and wimple, but still a familiar face. A dear, cherished friend. But still, so much had changed.

It had been just about three years ago that Sister Bernadette had become Shelagh Mannion again. Only a few months later and she was united in marriage to the man who had caught her heart by surprise and changed her life. And for Sister Julienne, those moments meant another goodbye, and another hello. An old friend to bid farewell, but a new one to get to know, all in the same person.

The image was clear in her mind as she placed the photos back on her desk. Sister Bernadette's eyes looked up at her from the photo, so bright, so full of thought. So much could be seen in those eyes that couldn't have been spoken at the time.

Sister Julienne stood, casting a glance toward the window at the gradually dimming afternoon sky outside. She couldn't stay here much longer. There was work to be done.

She squared her shoulders and set her eyes on the door. It was time to move ahead. Sister Bernadette was no more. She knew that. She'd accepted that years ago, watched with concern, care, and pride as the once unsure young woman had struggled to find her place. And found it she had, for certain. Sister Julienne knew that every time she saw Shelagh and Dr. Turner together, every time she saw their care and commitment to their patients and the community, and every time she saw their children, so happy and loved. Shelagh had found the right path. She didn't doubt that, but still with every new change, something else was lost.

Change was coming every day, and you had to learn to accept it, Sister Evangelina had said. The whole world was changing. It was not only Shelagh.

She wasn't used to being at odds with Shelagh, and perhaps she shouldn't be. Perhaps she shouldn't have spoken as she had in Dr. Turner's office. Perhaps it hadn't been right to call Shelagh out in such a way. Her friend had been nothing but kind to her since that day, but still the thought had remained-the doubt. They would have to speak again about this contraceptive pill, about its implications. The sister was still thinking, still praying, but answers hadn't come yet. Must the world change this suddenly, this soon?

1958 came clear into her mind once again. A young woman, unsure but at the same time resolute. Papers signed, a ring returned, a new life about to start. A bittersweet embrace. So much to gain, but at the same time so much to lose.

"May God bless you, my dear, good friend," she had said to the woman who now, in 1961, she still considered a cherished friend. She hadn't known when and how she would see her again, but she had. Things had changed, but those changes had been necessary and good.

She glanced back down at the photo for a moment before turning to face the door. Those clear eyes. That simple smile. At least those were still the same.

What of now? What of this latest difference? Perhaps this change had been necessary, but good? Sister Julienne would have to wait and see. And think. And hope. And pray.