The Garden Room faces east; the sun hits it first thing in the morning. The Thistle Room is smaller, cozier, tucked past the sitting room—close to the kitchen, where the house feels warmest. Elspeth’s own bedroom sits behind the pantry. She liked being near the kettle and the back door, within reach of whatever made the house hum.
Upstairs, there’s the Hearth Room, where the chimney runs through the wall and the pipes complain in winter. The Carriage Suite is mine now. And the Wisteria Suite waits at the end of the hall.
Elspeth always kept it ready, though she almost never let it. Said it was for her granddaughter. Said one day Elsie would come back and sleep beneath that sloped ceiling and the faded violet wallpaper, trading her childhood room for something that belonged to the woman she’d become.
I used to stay out back in the gardener’s quarters—a glorified shed with a mattress and drafts from every direction. It felt honest. I hadn’t earned a room in the house.
Then Elspeth slowed down. She asked me to move inside, said the place needed someone who could feel when something was off. Living here made it easier to catch the problems before they spread: the pipes, the roof, the creeping rot by the back door. Her, too.
That was nearly three winters ago. Since then, I’ve learned every sound this house makes. I know when the water heater knocks too loud, which floorboards shift with frost, how to coax the heat into cold corners.
Elsie has memories of this place. She remembers the version that held her, that loved her. I’ve lived here in the quiet after. Through the seasons that stripped it bare. Through the months no one came.
She grew up inside these walls. But I’ve kept them standing.
And the house? I think it knows the difference.
When I wakethe next morning, everything is hushed.
I pull on a sweatshirt and step into the hallway, blinking against sleep. The other doors are cracked open. Elsie’s room is empty. The Wisteria Suite is still untouched, cold and still.
I rub a hand over my face. My mouth’s dry, my shoulders sore. I must’ve been out cold. I didn’t hear her moving around overhead, didn’t hear the creak of the attic stairs or the soft thud of her footsteps above my room. She must’ve been quiet—or I was exhausted.
Maybe she’s already stomped her way into town. Tracked down Bobby, the town clerk, the zoning office, and whoeverelse might listen to her about the claim she has on this house. I wouldn’t put it past her. She seems dead set on disrupting whatever peace I’ve managed to carve out here.
So, I tug on a beanie and crack the window an inch to check the snowfall. Another two, maybe three inches overnight. Enough to cause trouble if she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Judging by her shoes, her coat, and that general air of charging in without thinking things through—she probably doesn’t.
I head downstairs, half expecting to find her in the kitchen with the coffee going and the cabinets rearranged again. Elspeth Sr. used to make breakfast here every morning. Scones, jam, fresh coffee with cinnamon and heavy cream. A Blue Willow special.
But now, the kitchen is still.
No kettle. No noise. No Elsie.
I rub the back of my neck, open the top cabinet, and pull down the tin of coffee grounds. We don’t get the fancy stuff here, just whatever’s on sale at the market. I fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and wait while the flame kicks on with a low whoosh.
Elspeth kept the french press on the counter for years. I moved it under the sink months ago to make space. Now, I drag it back out, rinse it with one hand while keeping an eye on the kettle.
There was a time the house would have started the coffee for me. Not literally, but close enough. Lights would warm before I reached for the switch. The kettle would sing right as I thought of tea. Doors would ease open when my arms were full.
It wasn’t a trick. It was the inn knowing what you needed and offering it without being asked.
That stopped after she died.
I’m halfway through measuring the grounds when I hear a soft clatter down the hall. Two quick knocks, then silence,followed by the faint scritch of something moving behind the walls.
Has to be Harold, the persistent little bastard.
“Thought I got rid of you,” I mutter.
I turn in time to see the mouse scurry toward Elspeth’s room, tail flicking as he slips through the crack in the door. The same door that’s been shut tight for over a year.
I stop short. My chest tightens—not a dramatic lurch, but a quiet pull, like something’s been nudged out of place. A memory brushing against the present. A breath held too long.
I really don’t fucking like it.
I move toward the door without fully deciding to. Quiet steps. One breath at a time. The air shifts as I near the threshold, still carrying the faint scent of lemon balm and cedar. I press my hand to the frame, lean far enough to see inside.
She’s there.
