After that, just blackness.Blessed, empty blackness.
She didn’t know what day it was.Didn’t know if it was morning or afternoon, Sunday or Thursday.It felt like morning, but that didn’t mean anything.
Groaning, she sat up, the heavy quilt sliding onto her lap.Every part of her ached—shoulders stiff, ribs sore, eyelids heavy like they’d been bruised from the inside.
On the nightstand, a glass of water waited beside a bottle of aspirin.Cassie’s phone sat there too, her charger neatly coiled beside it.A few feet away, tucked under the windowsill, was her luggage—her leather valise, violin case, and crossbody bag.She pressed her lips together, a swell of emotion rising.Margie must have gotten her rental car here as well—that was Margie, always doing everything, taking care of everyone.
Out of habit, she checked her phone, feeling instantly sick at the long scroll of missed calls and unread texts.She flipped the phone face down and left it there.
The pine floor creaked beneath her as she shifted, swinging her legs out of bed.Only then did she realize she was wearing pajamas she didn’t recognize or remember putting on—soft flannel bottoms and a faded T-shirt from some long-forgotten county fair.
Her bare feet padded to the window, where she pulled up the blinds.Below, Margie’s infamous garden stretched just beyond the porch—still overgrown, still thriving, just as Cassie had seen it last.
Beyond the garden, the ridge rolled out in endless folds of green, mountains receding in blue-gray bands, each one fainter than the last.Farther out, the hills gave way to coal-scoured patches, the earth stripped bare in raw, dark wounds.
She stared, recognition and strangeness tangling.She’d grown up with this view, but distance had changed her eyes.What had once felt ordinary now struck differently, in a way she didn’t care to examine.
Dragging a throw around her shoulders, she moved into the hall.Patsy Cline drifted up the stairwell, mingling with the sharp bite of coffee.Two voices carried up from below—Margie’s familiar rasp and another, deeper one Cassie didn’t recognize.
Following the creaking steps down into the passageway, she paused just outside the arch.Seated beside Margie at the small oak table was a man in a denim work shirt rolled to the elbows, silver hair cropped short and combed neat.He looked familiar, though she couldn’t place him.
“You can come on in, Cassie-girl,” Margie said, dry as dust.“Ain’t no secrets at my table.”
Wrapping the throw tighter, she stepped into the well-worn room, a wash of déjà vu rolling over her.The floor sagged a little deeper in spots, the old table bore fresh scars, and the black-and-white checked curtain over the sink had faded to gray, but it was more or less the same kitchen she remembered.
She sank into one of Margie’s mismatched chairs as Margie stood, pouring a fresh cup of coffee and setting it in front of her.“You hungry?You gotta be—done slept two days straight.”
She blinked, surprised.Two days?As if on cue, her stomach let out a loud growl.
“That’s answer enough.”Margie turned back to the stove.“I’ll have you some breakfast whipped up in no time.How’s a mess of biscuits an’ bacon sound?”
“Sounds good,” Cassie murmured, her voice still rough with sleep.In truth, she wasn’t sure she was hungry—her body felt hollow and queasy, like she was moving through a fever dream.
“I’m real sorry to hear about Connor,” the man said gently.“He was a fine boy, from a mighty fine family.”
Cassie sucked in a small breath.She didn’t want to talk about her brother.Just hearing his name was tugging at seams she was working hard at keeping closed.
“Thanks,” she said, fiddling with the handle of her mug.“Um, do I know you?You look familiar.”
He chuckled, roughened with fondness.“’Course you know me.You’d come to work with Birdie some days.Used to tear through that place like your shoes were on fire…”
Birdie.The pet name they’d all called her mama back in the day—yet another name Cassie never wanted to hear again.
“Charlie,” she said, recognition clicking.“You were a foreman at the factory.”
“Yep.And you were hell on two feet,” Charlie continued.“But polite about it.Always said you was sorry after tearin’ up the place.”
Margie snorted from the stove.“Damn near gave the whole floor a heart attack the day she was climbin’ the stairwell railin’ like it was a jungle gym.”
“I did not,” Cassie murmured, though it barely passed for protest.
“Oh, you did,” Margie said, pointing her spatula.“Char here had to fetch a ladder to get you down.Your mama was near tears.And you?Just sat there swingin’ your legs, askin’ for a MoonPie, please an’ thank ya.”
Charlie shook his head, laughing again.“Wild little thing.”
“Sure was,” Margie agreed, sliding a hot plate in front of Cassie.“There,” she said, brushing her hands together.“Bet you ain’t had home cookin’ in a while.”
Cassie looked down at the food, her throat tightening around the sudden and utterly unwanted ache in her heart.“Thank you,” she said quietly.
