She deserves more than the scraps of me I have left. That’s why I’m doing this—to make sure she gets the stewardship, the attention, the funds I can’t give. Only then can I finally turn that care inward, toward myself.
I duckunder the low rafters, brush cobwebs from my sleeve, and pull the chain on the lone bulb until it flickers to life. I couldn’t face Wells when I got back from the bog, so after peeling off my layers, I came straight up here to look for the proof I promised.
Ledgers. Guest logs. Photographs. Anything with a date and a name that proves the inn has always been more than a house. It’s a staple in Blue Willow that deserves preservation.
The attic breathes dust. Boxes sag at the seams. Trunks bow under their own weight. Scraps of fabric lie folded in uneven stacks, edges stiff with age. It smells like cedar and mothballs, like summers I tried to forget.
I tug open the nearest trunk. A pile of crocheted shawls. A stack ofReader’s Digests. A ledger so warped by damp it nearly crumbles when I touch it. I set it aside and keep going.
A box marked “Kitchen—holiday” yields nothing but cookie cutters and a copper fish mold. Another, labeled “Sewing,” I nudge aside with my boot—just spools and scraps, I figure. Nothing the committee could use.
But when I turn back, the sewing box has tipped over. The lid slipped, contents spilled in a fan across the floor like the house had knocked it deliberately off-balance.
I sigh and crouch to gather the mess. At first, it’s what I expect—faded fabric squares, tissue patterns, buttons scattered like dropped coins. But beneath it all, wedged tight into the corner like something the house meant for me to find, is a bundle of letters bound with soft twine.
Elspeth’s looping script spells out my name across the top, and I freeze.
I sit hard on the nearest trunk, dust blooming around me like smoke. The string is frayed, the paper worn soft as cloth. My name stares back in her hand again and again. Letters she never sent.
Did she not have my address? Or was she trying to respect the space I demanded without ever really saying the words? I can’t decide if I’m relieved they never reached me or gutted they’ve been waiting here for what feels like years.
My throat tightens. I unknot the bundle with shaking fingers and unfold the first.
My Dearest Elsie,
The inn creaked a lot this morning. I think it misses you. Houses can be quite lonely, you know, especially this one.
E.
I press a hand to my chest, like that might slow the tug beneath my ribs, and reach for another.
My lovely girl,
I hope you are resting. I hope the world is kinder to you than I could be when you left. Don’tthink I don’t understand. Leaving is part of living. But so is returning.
Elspeth
The words blur. I blink hard, force them back into focus.
I can’t keep reading—not now. Not if I want to hold myself together. Still, I shuffle through the rest, brushing my thumb over the script, the paper, the faded postmarks that never were. My name sits atop every envelope like a chant.
All except the last.
At the very bottom of the pile is one addressed not to me, but to Wells. The flap is sealed. The ink is lighter than the rest, but her hand is unmistakable. Deliberate and sure.
I shouldn’t open it. I know that. But God, do I want to.
She and I had our silences, our rifts. But Elspeth and Wells? As far as I knew, they never struggled to say what they meant. They weren’t estranged. So why this? Why write him and tuck it away with mine like some kind of secret?
“Elsie!” Wells calls from downstairs. “I made stew if you want some.”
I jolt, nearly drop the whole bundle. The letter to him slips free, fluttering toward the floor. I snatch it before it can land, clutching it to my chest, heart racing. Once I’ve caught my breath and quieted the panic in my hands, I tuck it beneath the others and retie the string.
When I stand, my knees ache from sitting too long. I brush dust from my jeans, shove the bundle into the bottom of the box, and close the lid firmly. The bulb sways, shadows leaping across the rafters.
“Coming,” I call.
I pull the chain and plunge the attic into darkness. My fingers still itch with the shape of her handwriting. My pulse is uneven,my thoughts louder than I’d like. And my chest—it’s full of words she never gave me and a few she never gave him.
