My chest aches so hard it’s a wonder the rafters don’t feel it.
“She thought too highly of me,” I whisper. “I’m just a simple fucking man.” I tip my head back, eyes burning. “She thought I could be enough. For the house. For her. For Elsie.” My laugh comes out cracked. “She should’ve picked a better fox.”
The chandelier gives a single, stubborn chime. The house disagrees.
I fold the letter carefully and slide it back into my wallet, but the words stay. They echo through my chest, circling like fucking sparrows. Lord knows we need more of them here.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the wooden beams, and I think of Elsie one floor up, crying into her old quilt. I think of the way she kissed me and then waggled her finger, the way she laughed through her tears, the way she looked at me like she was choosing me, too.
Sleep doesn’t come. Only the storm. Only Elsie’s voice echoing:You think this is easy for me? To want something so much and still be afraid of it? To love this house, to maybe love you, and to know that both things could break me if I choose wrong?
By the time the first gray streaks of morning edge through the curtains, I give up on sleep. I swing my legs to the floor, tug on my boots, shrug into my coat. In the kitchen, I grind beans, add cinnamon the way Elsie likes, and set the pot to perk.
The scent seeps into the walls—warm, sweet, familiar. I pour a mug full, leave it on the counter where she’ll see it, then tear a scrap of paper from the pad by the phone.
Coffee’s hot. I’ll be around to talk later. – W.
It isn’t much, but it keeps me from walking out empty-handed. Proof I haven’t ditched her. That I haven’t left her to pick up the pieces alone. I can’t face her yet, but I won’t vanish, either.
The boards grumble as I step through the hall. I mutter a good morning to the inn and let the door shut behind me.
Outside, the air is sharp, clean. Snow crusts the lane in thin, crunching sheets. Last night’s dusting has settled over old drifts, softening them back to white.
I shove my hands in my pockets and make the familiar walk toward High Hill.
I’ve only ever been to two funerals in my life. The first was when I was just a boy—some distant uncle. I don’t remember the man, only the feel of stiff shoes and incense thick enough to choke on. Death felt like playacting then.
The second was Elspeth’s. And there was certainly no pretending in that.
I stood here on this very ground, frozen to the bone, while the whole town filed past—clapping my shoulder, pressing my hand, telling me how sorry they were. As if she were mine. As if I were hers.
Hell, maybe I was. Maybe I always will be.
I remember searching the crowd, waiting for her daughter to appear. Waiting for her granddaughter, too. That wild slip of a girl who’d bolted years before. Neither came.
Back then, my anger was sharp enough to cut. They let her down. They let me bury her without them.
But now—walking between the leaning stones—I understand things in a way I didn’t before. I understand what it costs to come back. To face what you’ve lost, and to recognize that the person you loved is no longer here.
And they never will be again.
I stop at Elspeth’s marker. Someone’s been by recently. There’s a bundle of witch hazel laid at the base, blossoms gone limp, browned at the edges. I crouch, brush my thumb over the brittle petals, breathe in the faint ghost of sharp, medicinal green.
“I’m making a mess of this,” I tell the stone. “You said not to let her slip away. But Christ, Elspeth, you didn’t warn me what it’d feel like. To want her this much. To be so afraid she’s already half-gone.”
The grave doesn’t answer. Only the trees groan in the cold.
“She’s been talking with Beau about selling. For weeks. And then last night, she said she wanted to stay.” I shake my head. “Wanted to, before I ruined it.”
I rake a hand over my face. “We fought, hard. I really fuckin’ hated it.”
The words catch sharp in my throat. “She’s breaking me, Elspeth. With her arguments, her stubbornness, her laughter. She’s breaking me, and I’m letting her. Do you think I’ve got enough left in me to carry the both of us?”
Silence stretches. A crow cuts across the sky, black wings flashing. The witch hazel rattles like bones in the breeze.
I push to my feet, brush snow from my coat. “You’d tell me not to give up. I can hear you saying it.” I touch the top of the stone, fingers stinging with cold. “Are you watching over me? Are you proud or disappointed?”
Again, no answer.
