She didn’t dodge.
She didn’t deflect.
She didn’t swallow it down.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Then stronger—“Yes, I love him.”
“Good.” His voice softened again, gentle but firm. “Then start there. One step at a time. And when you can’t stand up anymore, call me. I’ll hold you up.”
Heather closed her eyes, tears spilling fresh, but this time they felt different. Not just grief—something steadier.
Something like hope.
Heather finally dragged herself from bed, her body stiff from days of sleeping in one tight, protective curl. The shower scalded away the heaviness clinging to her skin—steam coating the mirror, water beating hot against her shoulders until she finally felt something like herself beneath the ache.
She wrapped her hair in a towel turban, letting it drip slow warmth down her back, and reached for the blush cashmere robe draped over the vanity chair. She’d bought it in Millhaven on a whim: a small, defiant act of wanting softness after years of bracing herself. A part of her had never felt worthy of it then.
Now, as she slid her arms into the sleeves, the robe settled around her like a reminder:
I’m still here.
And I deserve gentleness.
Bare feet padding across Glenoran’s floors, Heather felt the house exhale around her. The halls were quiet, dust motes drifting lazily in the slanted evening light. Byrdie trotted at her heels, her bell-like mew cutting through the hush, keeping her company, as if she’d appointed herself emotional support cat for the day.
Heather ran her fingertips along the wainscoting as she passed, the wood warm under her palm. Glenoran felt… different. Not magically healed, not suddenly light, but something in the air had shifted since her phone call with Mark.
Less suffocating.
More watchful than grieving.
Like the house was still cracked from the weight of its past, but was willing to hold her anyway.
In the kitchen, Heather stirred a pot of tomato soup. She sliced bread, arranged cheese, and fought the strange tightness in her chest every time the spoon clinked against the pot.
Her mom had loved tomato soup.
They’d eaten it on rainy Sundays, two bowls steaming between them at their old laminate table.
Heather inhaled deeply. For the first time since Loch Arkaig, her stomach didn’t twist, it growled. A tiny victory.
Dusk stretched across the windows, bruised purple and Highland gray, when a knock sounded at the door.
Heather froze, ladle suspended mid-air.
The knock came again.
Lower this time.
Deliberate.
Byrdie perked up, ears tilting forward, tail flicking at attention. As if she, too, recognized the footsteps on the other side.
Heather wiped her palms down the front of her robe, pulling the sash tighter. Her pulse kicked hard, a frantic flutter behind her ribs. She crossed the kitchen, then the hall, each step echoing louder in the stillness.
When she opened the door—
