Page 55 of Of Heather and Thistle
As the sound of Mr. Reid and Mr. Duncan’s cars faded down the gravel drive, she crossed the threshold and closed the heavy door behind her.
She turned to the window, eyes adjusting to the muted light slipping through warped panes of glass.
Venturing forward, her boots padded over the dust-dulled oak floors. The house wasn’t haunted, exactly—but something about it felt like the walls had been holding their breath, waiting for someone to notice.
She stepped into what must have once been the drawing room—a wide, high-ceilinged space where tall mullioned windows framed the rolling green fields beyond. The fireplace was massive, its stone mantel coated in dust. She unlatched a window near the hearth, nudging it open. A Highland breeze curled inside, crisp and tinged with rain, ruffling her curls. Heather’s fingers brushed the chipped frame, her gaze drifting to the snow-dusted hills and a grove of trees hugging the horizon. In the distance, a crumblingstone wall marked the estate’s edge. Even in ruin, it was beautiful.
She could almost see it—flames crackling, laughter echoing. Now, only silence remained. A faded settee and side table clung to what had been. Sunlight had once danced across these walls, glinting off teacups and warming the air. Heather moved forward, step by step.
Beyond the drawing room, the dining hall’s long wooden table sat warped from years of damp. A tarnished chandelier hung above, its crystals scattering faint light. She traced the dust-covered surface. Once, this place had been full of life. Now, it barely had a pulse.
The kitchen was dim, tucked behind the dining hall. A massive hearth took up most of one wall, with a rusted iron stove beneath it. Forgotten firewood lay in a crumbling heap. A worn groove marked the wooden counter—a quiet trace of meals made, hands at work. Someone had tried to modernize it, though the grimy Formica and outdated fixtures only highlighted the loss. Still, it had been more than functional. It had been loved.
She shook the thought away. This was a business decision—it had to be. Anything else was too complicated. It wasn’t her home. And yet, it already felt familiar.
As she wandered deeper, her fingers skimmed the cold stone walls. Some rooms were empty; others held furniture draped in white sheets—ghosts of a life long gone.
In one of the downstairs bedrooms, she caught her reflection in the glass and almost didn’t recognize herself. Damp curls wild, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with something unnamed—uncertainty? Determination? Maybe both. The mask she wore every day had slipped. She wasn’t the guarded girlanymore.
She was just… her.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world slick and gleaming. She stepped into what had once been a private garden—stone pathways now tangled with weeds, a broken bench tilting against a crumbling fountain. Kneeling, she brushed her fingers over a stubborn patch of lavender that had survived the neglect. The scent hit her: soft, floral, familiar. A memory stirred—a warm lap, a lullaby, her mother’s fingers weaving through her hair. Maybe she hadn’t lost everything. Maybe, in some small way, her mother was still here.
As the dimming sunlight slipped behind the clouds again, Heather reentered the house and climbed the stairs, curiosity guiding her. A floorboard groaned under her boot—too loud in the stillness. A chill crawled up her spine. For a moment, she felt like an intruder. The silence stretched, thick and expectant, as if the house itself was waiting.
Downstairs had smelled of damp stone and old wood—preserved, museum-like. But this floor felt different. Lived in. The same oak floors creaked beneath her steps, but they were blanketed in once-plush carpet, matted with age. The bedrooms, the heart of daily life, carried faint traces of perfume and dust. Long faded, but not entirely gone.
The walls were papered in soft florals, pastel pink and green, unmistakably 1980s. The doors were painted cream, a contrast to the rich paneling below. Heather ran her fingers along the wallpaper, its colors dulled by time. It made sense—downstairs had been built to impress. Up here, they had lived. The space didn’t feel eerie, just… forgotten. Like no one had walked these halls in years. She wasn’t sure if that comforted her—or unsettled her more.
Then she saw it—the door at the end of the hall, a sliver of golden light slipping through the crack. Her hand hesitated on the knob, the brass cool and worn smooth. She swallowed, then slowly pushed it open.
Heather stepped inside and froze.
The room hadn’t been abandoned.
A twin bed sat neatly made, a quilt in soft blues and pinks smoothed over it. A wooden dresser stood opposite, cluttered with trinkets—porcelain figurines, a jewelry box, a stack of worn books with cracked spines.
“This was hers,” she whispered, thick with emotion. Her mother’s room. Her childhood sanctuary. The realization hit like a wave. She pressed a trembling hand to the dresser for balance. This wasn’t just a property. It was a thread to her mother, a window into a past she’d never fully known. And it had always been waiting.
She crossed the room, fingers grazing a faded photo tucked in the mirror’s edge—her mother, young and laughing, so full of life. Did she love it here? Did she ever want to come back?
Heather glanced around: framed pictures on the wall, records stacked beside a dusty turntable, a worn stuffed animal perched on the bed. This wasn’t history. This was a life. One she’d never been part of. She sank onto the bed, eyes drifting to the ceiling—cream-colored, smooth and unstained, unlike the rest of the house. The pale yellow walls and faded curtains still held a trace of whimsy.
Everything about this room felt intentional. Not forgotten. Preserved. Like someone had stepped out briefly and might return at anymoment.
Her breath caught. The book on the nightstand lay open, its pages splayed like it had been left mid-read, waiting.
This place wasn’t just a house.
It was a memory, a heartbeat, a home.
Outside, mist gathered over the garden. The light was fading fast. And for the first time, Heather didn’t want to leave. Despite the decay, despite the unknown, something had clicked into place.
She stood and smoothed the blanket, quiet determination settling in her chest. She could walk away. But she wouldn’t.
Not yet.
She didn’t know if Glenoran was a burden, a calling, or something in between.
