Page 67 of Of Heather and Thistle
It was broken. Haunted. Heavy with history.
But so was she.
And maybe—just maybe—if she could fix it, she could fix something in herself, too.
Chapter 18
The last light of day slipped through the old windows as Heather sat in her mother’s childhood bedroom, wrapped in silence. Only the creak of old beams and the soft patter of rain broke the silence. Byrdie lay curled on the bed, her tiny body rising and falling as she dozed.
Heather ran her fingers along the walls, pausing at the delicate color that had probably once been vibrant. This room had been her mother’s world once, long before Heather existed. It was a strange, bittersweet connection to someone she’d lost so long ago.
She opened the small wardrobe in the corner, its hinges squealing in protest. Inside, a few forgotten items hung like ghosts of another time: a faded blue dress with a lace collar and a plaid scarf neatly folded on the shelf. Heather carefully pulled out the blue dress, the fabric soft and worn from age. She held it up, imagining her mother as a girl twirling in this very room. The thought sent a pang through her chest—grief and connection tangled too tightlyto bear. On the shelf above, her fingers brushed over an old wooden box. Curious, she pulled it down and carried it to the bed, sitting cross-legged as Byrdie stretched and yawned. The box was small but sturdy, with a delicate carving of thistles etched into the lid.
She opened it slowly, the hinges groaning with a brittle creak. Inside, she found a collection of little treasures: a stack of photographs, black-and-white and slightly yellowed with age, of a smiling young woman she recognized as her mother. A handwritten letter caught her eye, folded neatly and addressed to Eilidh MacKenzie in elegant script. Heather carefully unfolded the letter, her hands trembling slightly. The paper felt fragile, as though it might crumble at any moment.
Dearest Eilidh,
I hope this letter finds you well and that you are dreaming big, as you always do. Someday, this house will be yours, and I know you’ll make it something extraordinary. Never let anyone tell you your dreams are too big.
Heather exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around the fragile paper.Someday, this house will be yours.
She read them again. They didn’t change.
Her mother was supposed to inherit Glenoran. She was supposed to make it extraordinary. But she never did. Her pulse quickened. Had her mother ever wanted to come back? Had she stood in this very room, hands trembling over this same letter, wondering if Glenoran was her future? But something had kept her away. Something had changed. Heather’s throat tightened. Why? What had stopped her?
For a moment, the weight of it all was too much. Heather clutched the letter to her chest, eyes squeezed shut against the sting of tears. The scent of old paper and faded lavender clung to the box, stirring something wordless and familiar inside her. A memory she could almost grasp—but not quite.
The letter was signed simplyAunt Margaret—a name her mother had only mentioned once or twice. Beneath it were trinkets: a pressed flower in glass, a silver locket, a tiny porcelain Highland cow. Heather smiled. Even then, the cows had been part of this place. Somehow, in this house full of ghosts, she felt closer to her mother than she had in years. Overwhelming—but unexpectedly comforting. Almost like… belonging.
Byrdie meowed softly, nudging her arm. Heather stroked her absentmindedly.
“What am I supposed to do with all this, Mom?” she whispered.
Byrdie chirped and climbed into her lap, curling against her stomach. Heather let out a watery laugh. “You always know, don’t you?” The cat purred in answer.
It didn’t matter that no one could respond. Being surrounded by her mother’s past made Heather feel a step closer to her own. Byrdie’s weight in her lap grounded her. She exhaled slowly, wiped a tear from her cheek, and placed the letter back in the box, tucking it under the bed.
“I’ll figure it out,” she said, steadier now. “I have to.”
It wasn’t just a project anymore. It was a chance to rebuild, to rediscover, to begin again. The wind rattled softly outside, drawing her gaze to the window. The house felt old, yes—but alive. And now, it was part of her story.
“I can do this,” Heather murmured.
Byrdie stretched and hopped down, padding across the wooden floor. She stopped at the door, tail twitching.
“What is it?” Heather asked, still smiling.
Byrdie let out an insistent meow, then pawed at the crack beneath the door. With a sigh, Heather stood and opened it, expecting her to dart out—but Byrdie only stared into the hallway, still and alert. The hairs at the back of her neck rose.
“You’re being dramatic,” she teased, though her voice was quiet.
Byrdie turned to look at her with bright, knowing eyes. She chirped—decisive and smug—and trotted back to bed like she’d solved something only she could understand. Heather chuckled and slid beneath the covers as Byrdie curled into a neat ball.
“You little weirdo.” She smoothed a hand over her soft fur. Byrdie purred, loud and steady in the silence.
Maybe Glenoran was still too big. Still too much.
But if Byrdie had already made it home…
