Big McIntosh grinned as he walked over the creaky old floorboards of the kitchen. Three or four foals weaved around him, under his belly, and through his legs as they chased each other about the house. He brushed his graying forelock out of his eyes.

Full. This house had always been better when full, and these days, it certainly didn’t disappoint. One of Applejack’s children still lived here—the next generation to take over the farm, once Big Mac and Applejack had retired, in name, if not in actual refraining from work. And it seemed like at least a dozen of either Applejack’s or Apple Bloom’s grandchildren would rule the place on any given day. Exactly as it should be.

The old Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse on the edge of the property still stood, but more as a curiosity. They had an actual building. A whole building now. Apple Bloom’s construction company had put it up a good twenty years ago, and she’d started a national organization, all official-like. Similar to the Filly Scouts or something.

Big Mac flipped through the mail and left the bills on the small desk in the hallway, then broke into an even wider grin at the last item: another postcard. No wonder Derpy had smiled so big. She’d swooped in with her six-year-old grandson on her back and paused a minute like she wanted to say something. From the smile alone, he’d figured on a note from Tavi, but what else? They came regularly enough—Tavi had kept that promise. She’d kept all her promises. Years later, he still didn’t count anypony as a closer friend, not even Derpy. But the mailmare had bitten her tongue and flown off.

He checked the postmark, but it was too faint for him to read. At least the front had nice, big words on it. From somewhere overseas—he had no idea where Maretonia was.

And so he headed for the stairs. He loved having all these kids around, but sometimes he needed a bit of quiet. Once in his room, he swung the door shut, mostly anyway. They didn’t usually close doors in this house. Not surprisingly, he heard a tiny knock just a few seconds later.

“Uncy Big Mac, can I play with Miss Smarty Pants?”

He turned and patted the small filly on her head. “In a minute, Honeycrisp. I got somethin’ to do first.”

She nodded and tore off back down the stairs. With a chuckle, Big Mac walked over to his dresser. He’d tell her when he went down later that she could come get the doll. If she even remembered.

On top of the dresser, his growing array of family photos sat. So long ago, he used to have postcards propped up amid them, but not anymore. Not enough space—instead, he’d kept them all in a binder on the dresser’s corner, and it had grown pretty heavy over the years. Tavi sent one nearly every month, all this time, and he’d write back when he knew she’d be in Canterlot. She’d even stop by for the occasional weekend to catch up and play some songs with him, and every year or two for another week-long folk music festival. All promises kept, and not because she felt obligated. She really wanted to. No deceit in those eyes—an Apple could tell. Even helped out with the gardening.

He took the book over to his bed and paged through it. Those first few that he could recite by heart. Then about a year’s gap before they’d started up again. Pictures and messages from every corner of the world.

The one where she’d told him she was getting married—he wouldn’t read it again, not today. The one only seven months afterward, where the shaky writing said it had ended already. She’d come back to visit not long after, but kept mostly to herself.

Another, where she’d tried to comfort him after his own broken engagement. Seems like they’d both given up after that. The one that got away, that was never meant to be, but that he’d never equal again, so why try?

With a sigh, he pushed through a couple of decades, all in one clump, and found the next empty spot near the back. “What do you think, Miss Smarty Pants?” he said, holding up the picture. “Maretonia. See all the pretty costumes and the old castle on the hill?”

And with the postcard’s back toward him, Big Mac finally saw the writing at the top, in big letters.

“I’m done.”

He blinked, held the card closer to his face, and felt around on the bedside table for his reading glasses. He read aloud to Miss Smarty Pants.

“I’m done. I got it all out of my system. There’s only one thing in my life I never accomplished, and it wasn’t fair to have to choose between my music and the only authentic love I ever found. If only I’d known that then, but as you said at the time, I always felt like the music was something bigger than me, something I owed the world. But I’m done. I’ve retired, and it’s time to do something for me. In two weeks, I’ll ride the carriage in from Canterlot, and my heart will skip a beat, just like it always has when I’ve made that trip. Now, maybe I’ll be the wise elder musing to a young mare about first love. But this time, I won’t have a return ticket. I just want to find a quiet corner of Ponyville where I can ply my simple gifts. And maybe I can finally find that last piece my life has been missing for so long. I hope I’ll see you there. You know I still love you. You’re better than I deserve.”

Big Mac stared at the writing a minute longer. Why would she even doubt it? “Couldn’t be,” he said. He shut the book again. This postcard wouldn’t go in there—he propped it up with the photos and put his binder back on the dresser.

Derpy had read it as usual, not that he minded. She’d always done that, with his okay. But the varmint knew his routine well enough to figure things’d play out exactly as they had. Him, in his room, nice and private. He owed her a muffin for that.

“Honeycrisp!” he shouted down the stairs. “You can play with the doll now!”

Two weeks. It had all started with two weeks, so why not? Maybe it’d just mean his best friend living nearby, maybe more, but either way, he’d love nothing better than to spend the time with Tavi. Black and gray, always with that sense of wonder and wind chimes of laughter. And the burgundy. The beautiful burgundy.

Like every time he’d gotten a postcard, he planned to stop by Carousel Boutique. He couldn’t find Rarity there too often these days, but within a week or so, at the shop or at a Ponytones rehearsal, he’d catch her. And he’d thank her, then she’d ask why, but her smile would say that she knew.

He opened his bottom dresser drawer, looked over the old walnut case inside, and rubbed a hoof across his mouth. Not lesson day until tomorrow. He’d taught two of those foals for a couple years now—Applejack’s third grandson and Apple Bloom’s oldest granddaughter.

The filly even saw the colors. So voice lessons for her, too. Just like Granny Stone said, can’t get one without the other, at least for somepony with that particular family inheritance. For a minute, his mind drifted to a cabin on a mountaintop and fiddle music by firelight.

No. No lessons today. But like he did once or twice a week, he’d enjoy an afternoon for himself. Not necessarily by himself—friends and family were always welcome to listen—but playing just for fun. For the love of it.

Then, humming an old lullaby, he took his dulcimer out and headed for a small pond at the base of a hill in a quiet orchard.

Author's Notes:

Another obvious one, but an encore is when the audience cheers the performers into extending the program, either by repeating something they've already played or adding to the playlist. It simply describes how there's a little extra to the story here, though it does recontextualize the ending.

The character Honeycrisp isn't defined in a definite way. I see her as Apple Bloom's youngest child. In any case, she's the same one I used in "There Will Never Be a Last Laugh," thus she later marries Pinkie Pie's son, which would require both Apple Bloom and Pinkie Pie to have children rather late in life, but not so late as to be unfeasible. Present Perfect accused me of starting a 'verse. I like subtle links like this, but they're so minor that I wouldn't consider them as such.

ply my simple gifts

Yeah, a reference to the song Octavia had always loved.

Now a word about the story as a whole. I'll try to keep it as brief as possible.

I started this story almost three years ago, when I'd only published two or three fanfics. My first story was one of very moderate success, but it was chaptered. Only five chapters, though. A lot of the stories I admired at the time were quite long, and the only other chaptered concept I had would run a mere seven installments, which I later cut down to five (and, incidentally, another one I put down and still haven't revisited yet).

So this one started as a very open concept, one of those you hear authors go on about where you "let the story write itself." I figured I could ramble on for thirty chapters or more off nothing but the premise of shipping Big Mac with Octavia.

I got stuck after chapter four.

For one thing, I've come to believe that "letting the story write itself" is an excuse for having the seed of an idea but no plan. And if you have no plan, how can you get the story to go anywhere? Maybe that works for some people, but not for me, and I ended up with something directionless.

I put the story down, and after a year and a half, finally started getting ideas of how to wrap it up in another chapter or two. The thing is, I'd wanted it to be a happy story. But it's such a cliched thing for a romance to lead up to a first kiss, a wedding, whatever. What then? That's the easy part. What happens after is tough. That's the real story.

Anyway, I couldn't come up with anything other than a pat, worn ending, because I had no goal for the story besides getting them together, and I couldn't force one on it after the fact. Plus, I actually liked what I'd written so far and didn't want to alter it much. So my plan for closing it out went to having the romance fail.

So two years after I'd written those first four chapters, I finally picked it back up. Being so old, they needed a good rewrite just for quality, plus I added in some subplots and thematic elements. Then I wrote chapter five, leading toward the intended breakup. I already knew how it would end, already had chapter six plotted out. But then I got a great idea for the epilogue and wrote it first. I just had to get it out.

Then chapter six. The story had originally been solely optimistic, and I hadn't written any material yet to change that. So chapter six still felt separate. I can get too emotionally attached to my characters sometimes, and it did cause me some difficulty to write it, but it wasn't until editing that it hit me. Hard.

That's when it really sunk in, and I felt so bad for my characters. The story takes on an entirely different tone on a second read-through, once you know how it ends. It was tough to do the editing rounds, and while I'll often get used to a story with each pass, this one continued to get worse. I dreaded doing the final check this week, and I only made a couple dozen changes to phrasing and word choice, but I had to blow my nose about five times and wipe away tears.

I don't know why this one affected me so much. And unlike many authors, I usually like going back to read my old stories, most of them, at least. But I can't do that with this one. Maybe parts of it, but not chapter six. It's had me in a funk for over two weeks now. Damn this story. It's what I want it to be, but I can't enjoy it.

Even so, I'm sad to come to the end of the journey, and I'm glad I could end it on an upbeat note, at least. As Present Perfect put it when pre-reading for me, it's important to realize that "a failed romance isn't the end of the world." I think it's a point worth making.

Thank you all for reading, and take care.