Page 4 of Of Heather and Thistle
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would face whatever was inside that envelope.
Tonight, she just needed to rest.
* * *
Morning arrived too soon.
Heather woke to soft light filtering through the curtainsand Byrdie’s insistent meows at the foot of the bed. Her body felt heavy—like the weight of yesterday had followed her into sleep. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling unmoored. The funeral was over. Her father was gone. And yet, the envelope still sat on the kitchen table, unanswered.
Byrdie let out an impatient chirp before hopping onto the bed, nudging her head against Heather’s arm.
“Alright, alright. I’m up,” Heather grumbled, raking a hand through her tangled curls as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
She shuffled into the kitchen, Byrdie trotting close behind, her tail flicking with purpose. After feeding her, Heather turned to the kettle, filling it without thinking. It was a small ritual she had developed—always filling it the night before, so mornings were just a little easier.
The water began to warm, the soft hum filling the silence. The whistle eventually curled steam into the air, but Heather barely heard it. Her gaze had locked onto the envelope.
Still unopened. Still waiting.
She hesitated, fingers hovering just above it.
She could do it now. Tear it open. Face whatever was inside.
But her hand faltered.
Not yet.
Instead, she grabbed her coat. If she stayed here, alone with her thoughts, they would suffocate her. If anyone could pull her out of her head, it was Ivy.
* * *
The city was still waking up when Heather stepped outside,the crisp morning air biting at her cheeks. She tucked her scarf tighter around her neck and started down the quiet, tree-lined street toward the bus stop.
A few minutes later, she climbed aboard and settled into her usual seat by the window. The ride was short, the city passing by in a blur of weathered brownstones, quiet storefronts, and coffee shops flicking on their lights. The green-and-white sign ofThe Roasted Beanwaited for her—just like it always did.
Inside, the smell of espresso and cinnamon wrapped around her like a warm embrace.
Ivy was already there, tucked into their usual corner, hands wrapped around a steaming latte. Her golden-blonde hair was mostly hidden beneath a knit beanie, but a few loose strands framed her face, catching the light. She looked effortlessly put-together, as always, her oversized scarf draped perfectly around her delicate frame. Ivy had the kind of beauty that turned heads without trying.
She spotted Heather and waved, her turquoise eyes bright with warmth.
“Hey, you!” Ivy greeted as Heather slid into the chair across from her. “I was starting to think you were going to bail and leave me to awkwardly flirt with the barista for entertainment.”
Heather smirked. “Trust me, I debated it. But pacing my apartment like a crazy person wasn’t a better option.”
Ivy unwrapped her scarf and shook out her golden waves, the movement easy, practiced. Attention always followed her, like moths to light. And Heather had never minded standing in the glow.
Ivy arched a brow. “So, rough morning?”
“Rough week,” Heather corrected.
Ivy hummed knowingly. “Yeah, sounds about right. Funerals are kind of the Olympics of awkwardness. Did you at least make it through without anyone cornering you with unsolicited life advice?”
Heather exhaled a short laugh. “No unsolicited advice. But my dad’s lawyer gave me an envelope with my name on it. He said it’s important, but I haven’t opened it.”
Ivy’s brows shot up. “Oh? Mystery mail? Are we talking heartfelt letter, surprise will, or a long-lost family scandal?”
Heather sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I’m too nervous to open it. What if it’s something bad? It’s not like it’s going to change anything. He’s gone.”
