Good endings make sense; evoke emotion like contentment, anger, sadness, or curiosity; shift the reader’s perspective; or open her mind to new ideas. They do not confuse or cast the whole story as a hoax. Good endings bring the hero—and, more importantly, the reader—to some kind of destination (even if it’s a trap)https://refiction.com/articles/making-ends-meet-how-to-write-a-good-ending-to-a-story. Alex J Coyne
The Ending To ‘The Railway Children’ By E. Nesbitt
‘Only three people got out of the 11.54. The first was a countryman with two baskety boxes full of live chickens who stuck their russet heads out anxiously through the wicker bars; the second was Miss Peckitt, the grocer’s wife’s cousin, with a tin box and three brown-paper parcels; and the third—
“Oh! my Daddy, my Daddy!” That scream went like a knife into the heart of everyone in the train, and people put their heads out of the windows to see a tall pale man with lips set in a thin close line, and a little girl clinging to him with arms and legs, while his arms went tightly round her.
“I knew something wonderful was going to happen,” said Bobbie, as they went up the road, “but I didn’t think it was going to be this. Oh, my Daddy, my Daddy!”
“Then didn’t Mother get my letter?” Father asked.
“There weren’t any letters this morning. Oh! Daddy! it IS really you, isn’t it?”
The clasp of a hand she had not forgotten assured her that it was. “You must go in by yourself, Bobbie, and tell Mother quite quietly that it’s all right. They’ve caught the man who did it. Everyone knows now that it wasn’t your Daddy.”
“I always knew it wasn’t,” said Bobbie. “Me and Mother and our old gentleman.”
“Yes,” he said, “it’s all his doing. Mother wrote and told me you had found out. And she told me what you’d been to her. My own little girl!” They stopped a minute then.
And now I see them crossing the field. Bobbie goes into the house, trying to keep her eyes from speaking before her lips have found the right words to “tell Mother quite quietly” that the sorrow and the struggle and the parting are over and done, and that Father has come home.
I see Father walking in the garden, waiting—waiting. He is looking at the flowers, and each flower is a miracle to eyes that all these months of Spring and Summer have seen only flagstones and gravel and a little grudging grass. But his eyes keep turning towards the house. And presently he leaves the garden and goes to stand outside the nearest door. It is the back door, and across the yard the swallows are circling. They are getting ready to fly away from cold winds and keen frost to the land where it is always summer. They are the same swallows that the children built the little clay nests for.
Now the house door opens. Bobbie’s voice calls:—
“Come in, Daddy; come in!”
He goes in and the door is shut. I think we will not open the door or follow him. I think that just now we are not wanted there. I think it will be best for us to go quickly and quietly away. At the end of the field, among the thin gold spikes of grass and the harebells and Gipsy roses and St. John’s Wort, we may just take one last look, over our shoulders, at the white house where neither we nor anyone else is wanted now.‘
Ending For ‘Tom’s Midnight Garden’ By Phillipa Pearce
‘You must certainly bring him to visit me,’ said Mrs. Bartholomew, firmly. ‘Will you be sure to tell Peter that I shall be expecting him?’ Tom promised. He found that, after all, he was looking forward eagerly to going home. There would be the warmth of that homecoming; and, when the welcomes were over, he would draw Peter aside into the little back-garden and whisper: ‘Peter, I’ve the secret of the other garden to tell you, and I’ve an invitation for you from Hatty.’ Meanwhile, Tom must really say good-bye to Mrs. Bartholomew now, or he would be late for lunch and for going home. Already Aunt Gwen was anxiously looking out for him, on the floor below. From the front door of Mrs. Bartholomew’s flat, Tom saw her on the watch; and Mrs. Bartholomew saw her too. ‘Good-bye, Mrs. Bartholomew,’ said Tom, shaking hands with stiff politeness; ‘and thank you very much for having me.’ ‘I shall look forward to our meeting again,’ said Mrs. Bartholomew, equally primly. Tom went slowly down the attic stairs. Then, at the bottom, he hesitated: he turned impulsively and ran up again – two at a time – to where Hatty Bartholomew still stood… Afterwards, Aunt Gwen tried to describe to her husband that second parting between them. ‘He ran up to her, and they hugged each other as if they had known each other for years and years, instead of only having met for the first time this morning. There was something else, too, Alan, although I know you’ll say it sounds even more absurd…Of course, Mrs. Bartholomew’s such a shrunken little old woman, she’s hardly bigger than Tom; anyway: but, you know, he put his arms right round her and he hugged her good-bye as if she were a little girl.’
Ending For ‘Little Women’ by Louisa M Alcott
“Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one,” began Mrs. March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of countenance.
“Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done,” cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.
“I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year,” said Amy softly.
“A large sheaf, but I know there’s room in your heart for it, Marmee dear,” added Meg’s tender voice.
Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility..
“Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!”