Chapter Seven | Earth Is a Little Sweeter Now

The last day of summer came with rain.

Not a storm—just a soft, steady drizzle that made the pavement smell like new beginnings. Marblecake stood at the edge of the Thimbletuck Festival, watching the lights flicker to life beneath the canvas booths and hearing the first notes of a fiddle echo from the gazebo.

Everyone was there.

Petra, balancing a tray of strange candies she’d made from mushrooms and maple syrup. Milo, running the cakewalk booth with his dad, who kept calling him “Captain Sugar” and making terrible space jokes.

And Marblecake—wearing her favorite apron, carrying a satchel full of postcards she’d designed from star maps, and feeling something that almost felt like belonging.

The radio had been quiet since the last message.

No more pulses. No new signals.

She wasn’t sure if that meant the conversation was over—or if it had just begun.

But she didn’t feel alone anymore. That mattered.

When she passed the Mayor, who was busy judging a pie-eating contest, he gave her a wink. “Careful,” he said. “You’re becoming one of us.”

She smiled. “I think I already was.”

At the far edge of the fair, by the old oak tree, she set up a little display. A sign that said:

Marblecake’s Messages:
Send one to space, or just across town.
Postcards for the unspoken things.

People stopped. They wrote things.

Some left messages of hope. Others, tiny apologies. A few, just drawings of stars.

And one man, old and quiet, wrote: I miss you. Every day. I hope you knew.

Marblecake didn’t read them all. That wasn’t the point.

She just stood by the mailbox—painted sky blue and dotted with constellations—and collected what people needed to let go of.

Later that evening, when the moon was high and the festival had softened into fireflies and low music, Milo and Petra joined her beneath the tree.

“You know,” Petra said, “I think your name suits you.”

“It’s weird,” Marblecake said.

“It’s layered,” Milo corrected. “And unexpected.”

“And sweet,” Petra added.

Marblecake looked up at the stars.

“I think I’ll stay a while,” she whispered.

No one asked what she meant.

They just sat with her, passing a thermos of warm cider, letting the world be strange and wonderful and theirs.

The radio didn’t buzz that night.

But when she got home, the stars blinked once—twice—three times.

She blinked back.