E P I L O G U E
A sixteenth century Italian philosopher once argued that if God is infinite then there must be an infinite amount of worlds. Harry had remembered this one night, sitting before the vast field in the midst of winter. He pondered once more the amount of endings he had accumulated in the past six months. Six long months since that August day.
There were endings that made sense, endings that were more beginnings than anything else. The end of loneliness, the beginning of a life built by two. He didn’t know what to make of the countless he had made, other than to to remember this sixteenth century Italian philosopher, Giordano Bruno, who had once theorized that there were an infinite of worlds that existed. Thus, he believed, that there were an infinite amount of endings he would never quite to experience.
But at least, he had the solace of reading them.
After Mia's funeral, Harry found himself wandering unearthed worlds deep within his mind. In these worlds, in each and every one, Mia was still very much alive. In some, she had left. She had a spat with Harry, deciding that she was not ready yet to dedicate her life to one person. She packed up her novels, she emptied her cabin, and within the darkness of the night she had dissapeared into the unknown world to make a life for herself.
In others, in others they lived the life he had always imagined for themselves. They got married, they had children, Mia told them stories of how strawberries grew and how people fell in love. She was a beautiful mother, much too beautiful a sight to behold. That ending he usually left before he immersed himself to deeply. It was too hard for him to imagine.
There were nights were his only comfort was escaping to a reality in which he could control the outcome of his life. There were days where he wrote as if there were nothing else he could possibly do. He escaped his life, every aspect of it, in order to keep on living.
But in the end, Harry did write his story. In it, he described perhaps the greatest love he would ever find. He remembers in the cold bitter nip of the night writing the last page. The last page which was not an ending, merely a letter to his strawberry girl.
And even though Harry spent a good six months searching for an ending that would never happen in a reality he would never be a part, he realized now that he did not need to. What had happened, had happened. And it was within his book that he would relive all of it.
Still to him there was no grander reality, he realized, than the one he was a part of now. Even if his strawberry girl was gone, she had once been a part of it. And it would be a blatant disrespect to want to belong to a world that she had never known.
He looks up at the field once more, their strawberry field, before heading back inside. It was covered in snow, and since he had taken to sleeping in the cabin he had yet to see a single fruit bloom. He knew it was the dead of winter, and Niall would constantly remind him of this when he would turn and gaze at the dusted field.
But tonight, under the cover of snow he sees something. He walks across the field, shivering slightly as he approaches it, and that’s when he sees it. He shook his head in disbelief, not quite sure what it was that he was seeing.
And he knew, he knew the moment he came up to the small bloom with the littlest red tip that it didn't matter how many endings he wrote, or how many realities could be possible, one thing still remained constant in those beautifully infinite worlds.