Page 1 of Of Heather and Thistle
Prologue
The last time Heather saw her mother, the world was still warm.
She remembered the scent of lavender drifting through the air, the way the afternoon light slanted through the kitchen window, painting golden streaks across the floor. Her mother’s laughter had filled the space between them, soft and lilting, like a melody only they knew.
And then, nothing.
Grief had no shape at nine years old—not the cold precision of condolences, nor the dull ache of longing would settle into her bones years later. It was a sudden and terrible silence. A house too big without its heartbeat. A father who stumbled more than he stood. A closet that smelled of her mother’s perfume long after she was gone.
People came and went, their faces blurred by whispered voices and hushed reassurances. “She’s too young to understand.” Or “She’ll forget in time.” But Heather understood enough.
Her mother was gone.
And her father—though still there —was someone elseentirely. The man who once lifted her onto his shoulders and made her laugh with silly voices had been swallowed by something dark and unrelenting. Brandy replaced warmth. Words slurred into something sharp, something that cut even when she couldn’t understand the meaning. The man who once tucked her in at night now let doors slam and shadows stretch in long shapes against the walls.
She learned to be quiet. To stay out of his way. To flinch before she even knew why.
Then came Ivy. Her best friend. Bright as summer; fierce as a promise. She swept into Heather’s life like a breath of fresh air, filling the silence with stories, secrets, laughter, and light. She gave Heather something to hold onto, something to believe in. The kind of friendship that wrapped around her like a shield, keeping the worst of the world at bay.
And for a while, it was enough.
But grief does not fade—it lingers, waiting for the right moment to resurface. And years later, when Heather stood at her father’s grave, she realized the past never truly lets go.
Chapter 1
Heather Mackenzie Campbell had spent her entire life surrounded by silence, but none as deafening as the stillness that filled her father’s empty house.
She lingered in the middle of the living room, staring at the faded floral wallpaper and sagging furniture, barely aware of the scuff of wheels against the floor behind her. The air smelled of stale beer and dust. But beneath it lingered something colder—sterile. Final.
A murmur of voices. The clipped tones of professionals. The metallic rattle of a stretcher passing through the doorway.
And then, with a quiet click, the door shut.
* * *
His funeral was small. A mercy, really.
Charles Campbell wasn’t the kind of man people mourned. He had lived hard, drank harder, and leftlittle more than a trail of unpaid bills and broken promises. Heather had been the dutiful daughter, seeing him through his final days despite everything. And now, at twenty-three, she found herself utterly alone.
She stood apart from the handful of attendees clustered near the gravesite. Her black dress and wool peacoat hugged her frame as the wind tangled her red curls, whipping them against her pale skin in unruly waves. The minister’s voice droned on, solemn and steady, but the words barely reached her. Her gaze stayed fixed on the casket—a plain pine box that summed up her father’s existence. No flourish. No legacy. Just a hollow vessel lowered into the earth.
A few neighbors had shown up out of obligation rather than grief. Mrs. Dempsey, who lived two doors down, dabbled in casseroles and gossip. Mr. Frawley, who once yelled at her father for tossing beer cans into his yard, stood with his hat in his hands, looking uncomfortable. None of these people had truly known Charles Campbell.
None of them had endured the sharpness of his anger or the weight of his silence as she had.
Heather didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in years—not for him.
The cloying scent of white lilies clung to the air, thick and too sweet. Her mother had loved lilies. She had filled vases with them, pressed them between book pages, breathed in their scent like it was part of her soul. It felt wrong for them to be here, resting atop the grave of a man who had done nothing but tarnish every memory of the woman who once loved them.
When the service ended, people shuffled away, murmuring platitudes they probably thought she needed to hear.
“He’s at peace now.”
“He’s in a better place.”
Heather only nodded, their words sliding off her like water on stone.
Silence settled over the gravesite. The sky hung low and heavy, promising snow. She exhaled slowly, letting the weight of solitude press in around her.
