Page 74 of Of Heather and Thistle
“That sounds like a full time job.”
“It probably is,” Flynn admitted. “But it’s your chance to put your stamp on the place. And hey, if you find any skeletons in the closet—literal or figurative—you know who to call.”
“Flynn Duncan, professional ghostbuster?” she said with a grin.
“Among other things,” he replied, winking.
Then he grabbed his tool bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with the crew. You’ll probably hear us stomping around on the roof before you’ve had your morning coffee.”
Heather nodded, feeling slightly less daunted now that a plan was in place.
“Thanks, Flynn. For everything.”
He paused by the door, his smile warm.
“Anytime, Campbell. Don’t work too hard going through all that stuff. And remember—no lighting any more fires until I give you the all clear.”
“Oh, and Heather.” He glanced ather, something softer in his expression. “Just so you know.’ he said as if it were an afterthought. “I’ll take care of that room. Exactly the way you want it.”
Heather swallowed again, but this time, she managed a small smile. “Yeah. I know you will.”
And that was the problem.
With that, he headed out, leaving Heather in the middle of the room. She looked around at the overwhelming amount of things to sort through, but finally, it didn’t feel so impossible. Heather took a deep breath, turning in a slow circle as she surveyed the room. The enormity of the task ahead loomed, but Flynn’s presence earlier had left her feeling more grounded, even a little energized. One step at a time, she told herself.
She grabbed a pair of gloves she’d found in a drawer earlier and started with a corner of the sitting room, where a large wooden trunk sat beneath a dusty throw blanket. Pulling the blanket off sent a cloud of dust into the air, making her cough. “Lovely,” she muttered before flipping open the lid.
Inside, she found stacks of yellowed letters bound with twine, their edges brittle with age. Faded photographs. A few antique-looking jewelry boxes. A wooden crate full of books. And an old tartan shawl.
Heather unfolded it carefully, running her fingers over the worn wool, frayed slightly at the edges. Had her mother wrapped herself in this on cold nights, standing by this very window, dreaming of places beyond Glenoran? Had she pressed it to her nose, breathing in the same faint scent of peat smoke and lavender that lingered now?
Heather stilled, her hands brushing over the fragile fabric. A scent clung to it—faint, familiar, something she couldn’tquite place. Age, memory, maybe time itself. But it made her think of open fields and hearth smoke.
She closed her eyes, picturing her mother here, fingers curled around this very shawl.
A whisper from the past—a reminder that her mother had once been a daughter, a dreamer. Someone who had walked these halls as a child, maybe pulling this same shawl tight around her shoulders on a cold Highland morning.
It was a side of her mother Heather had never known—a side erased by years and the version of herself she had become in America. The mother Heather remembered was busy, reserved. Distant. But this room held echoes of someone different.
The hush pressed in as Heather sat back on her heels, the shawl still cradled in her hands. For a fleeting second, she swore she could hear laughter—faint, far away—as though the walls had stored the voices of those who had come before her.
Her mother’s voice—younger, lighter—drifted through her mind, carrying an accent softer than the one she’d brought to the States. Had she once twirled in this room as a girl, laughing at nothing, dreaming of the world beyond these walls?
Heather’s chest tightened. There was no way to be sure.
Her mother had never spoken much about her life here. A few offhand comments—names of relatives Heather couldn’t remember, stories that had felt distant, foreign, to a child growing up in the Midwest. But standing here now, holding this shawl, taking in the faint scent of old wool and memory, it feltdifferent.
It felt real.
It felt personal.
Beneath the shawl, a bundle of letters waited, tied in fading twine. She traced her finger over the delicate handwriting, the ink faded but still legible.
She hesitated.
Opening them might shatter the fragile connection she had just found. But a part of her ached to know more—to uncover the pieces of her mother’s story that had been tucked away.
Still, she held back. Not now. Not tonight.
