Page 75 of Where the Roses Bloom
“I’m right here,” I whispered, palm steady between her shoulder blades. “You’re not alone.”
And she wasn’t.
Not even close.
CHAPTER 26
Rhett
The house didn’t feel rightwithout her.
It was too still, too quiet, too empty. I’d gotten used to the soft creak of the floorboards under Willow’s bare feet, the hum of her little tunes when she puttered around the kitchen, the scent of rosehip oil clinging to the air. Now, without her…
It felt hollow.
So I didn’t go back to sleep.
I got up and kept trying to get to work on renovating the study.
I’d managed to rebuild most of the bookshelves, gathering Hazel’s photo albums, recipes, letters, and novel collection. I kept searching for anything about the curse, but I was coming up empty.
I flipped through one of Hazel’s older journals, fingers blackened with dust. A dried rose fell out from between two entries—brown and crumbling, but still fragrant. It hit me square in the chest.
Willow would’ve known what kind it was.
And Willow was still gone.
The sun was high in the sky, and I hadn’t heard from her—not a call, not a text, not even a check-in on the landline. I figured the birth was going okay. It wasn’t my business. I needed to let her do her thing.
But still. I hated the way the silence stretched in her absence.
I set the journal down and rubbed the back of my neck. My shoulders ached from sanding and bending, my palms raw. I crossed the hall toward the kitchen, hoping a strong cup of coffee would help me push through the rest of the afternoon?—
The front door slammed.
Silence.
I frowned. “Willow?”
No answer.
I stepped into the hallway, my bare feet catching grit on the hardwood. Sunlight slanted through the front windows, too bright for how cold the air suddenly felt. I moved toward the entryway, every muscle tight, expecting to see her there—hair pulled into a messy braid, exhaustion in every line of her face, ready to go back to bed or enjoy a homecooked meal.
But the door was closed.
Not just closed—latched.
I reached for it, checked the knob. Locked from the inside.
“Hello?” I called again, voice low.
Nothing.
I turned in a slow circle, listening. The house had gone dead quiet again…and this wasn’t the soft, familiar hush I’d grown used to. Not the kind of quiet that came with memories—Hazel’s perfume hanging in the hallway, a door creaking open on its own like someone checking in. That kind of quiet didn’t scare me.
This did.
“Okay,” I muttered, trying to shake it off. “Just tired.”
