Page 82 of Of Heather and Thistle
He turned toward the crew, but Heather felt the shift. The moment where Flynn stopped reaching. She had seen him leaning in all this time, effortlessly closing the distance she never knew she had let exist. But now? He wasn’t leaning in. He wasn’t trying to understand. Because she had shut the door before he even had the chance to ask what was wrong. She barely remembered the walk to the car, the cool air brushing against her skin as she set the box down in the passenger seat. Her mind was a whirl of emotions, and the tightness in her chest wouldn’t loosen.
* * *
When she reached the Thistle Haven Inn, she didn’t even bother to check in with Ms. Kinnaird. She went straight to her room, locking the door before collapsing onto the bed. Her breath was uneven, her thoughts scattered. The househad sold. She had thought she was ready for it, but she wasn’t. And Flynn had been kind and understanding, but that made it worse. She wasn’t sure how to handle someone like him, who seemed so steady—while she felt as though she could barely keep it together.
Heather sat up slowly, picking at the edge of the box, her thoughts drifting to the items inside. Her mother’s life was there, the past she had never fully known. But now, with the house gone, what did that even mean? What was left for her to hold onto?
She sat there for a long moment, staring at the box in her lap—the room’s stillness pressing around her. The items inside were so small, so insignificant on their own—tattered pieces of fabric, old parchment, a flag—but they held so much weight. She clung to memories she wasn’t sure she could face. Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, breaking the silence. She glanced at it but didn’t move to pick it up. She already knew who it was. Flynn. He was probably checking in, making sure she was okay, wanting to ensure she didn’t shut him out. But that was the problem. She didn’t know how to let him in either.
She sighed, sinking back into the pillows. The house was gone. Her father’s house was no longer hers. She hadn’t realized how much ofherstill lived in that house. As painful as it had been, it was still a part of her story, and now that chapter had closed. It felt like losing another piece of her mother, another piece of her childhood that she wasn’t ready to let go of.
But it wasn’t just the house that was hard to let go of—it was the guilt—that corrosive ache that she hadn’t been enough to fix him—couldn’t save him from the demons that had slowlyconsumed him. And now, all of that was gone. The house, the memories, and the weight of responsibility that had followed her for so long were all just… gone.
The tears threatened, but she blinked them back—too stubborn to let grief win. She had already cried enough in her life. She wasn’t doing it again.
She looked at the box again, her fingers brushing the items’ edges. The tartan, the old flag, the parchment—things that meant nothing to her, yet everything. She had to figure it out. She owed that much—to her mother’s memory, and to the girl still learning how to live without her.
But not today.
Today, she was done with decisions. She was done with heavy emotions that threatened to drown her. Today, she needed peace, something simple. Pulling the box closer to her, Heather tucked it away on the shelf, promising that tomorrow, she’d take another step forward. But not tonight. Tonight, she just needed a break—a quiet moment to breathe without the weight of her past on her shoulders.
She climbed beneath the quilt like armor and silence, pulling it tight around the frayed edges of herself. She allowed herself a final glance at the window before closing her eyes.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, she’d rebuild the walls.
But tonight, she let herself disappear.
Chapter 22
The next day, Heather walked to Dr. Morrow’s office—the historian Flynn had recommended. She clutched the old wooden box, her fingers digging into the grain. It felt heavier today. Yesterday, it was just a curiosity. Today, it carried the full weight of her mother’s absence, her father’s silence, and a history she’d never been allowed to claim. She had left Byrdie at the inn, knowing she needed the time and space to focus on what she was doing.
The house had been hell, but also where her mother’s laughter once echoed. Selling it meant letting go of both. The relief of the sale unearthed everything she’d tried to bury. Pain she’d spent years boxing up was now spilling out of the seams.
By the time she reached Dr. Morrow’s office, her grip on the box had tightened. The building was old, its weathered stone cloaked in ivy—much like the man who occupied it: an eccentric, scholarly type—part of the town as much as the ivy and stone around him.
Dr. Morrow greeted her at the door with a broad smile, his round glasses perched slightly askew on the bridge of his nose. “Ah, good morning to you, lass! Come in, come in!”
His voice was warm and full of energy. He looked exactly like you’d expect a historian to look—snow-white hair in a wild halo, like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times mid-thought. His tweed jacket was a size too big, its elbows patched with darker suede, and his plaid tie was loosely knotted, dangling just off-center like a shrug. A chain dangled from his pocket, presumably attached to an old pocket watch, and a pair of scuffed leather loafers completed his look.
Despite his slightly disheveled appearance, his pale blue eyes had an undeniable sharpness. They sparkled with curiosity and enthusiasm only someone deeply passionate about their work could possess. His movements were quick and nimble for his age, as though fueled by an unending excitement for discovery.
“Ye must be Miss Campbell,” he said, clasping her hand briefly in his. His hands were calloused and warm, with faint ink stains along his fingertips, remnants of countless hours spent poring over old texts and documents. “Welcome, welcome! Let’s have a look at what ye’ve brought me, shall we? Oh, I do love a good mystery!” Heather blinked, caught off guard. “Wait… do I know you?”
Dr. Morrow gave a hearty chuckle, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, Mr. Duncan gave me a ring. Said to expect a bonnie redhead from America with a mystery box and no patience for nonsense.”
“Flynn called you?” She frowned. “I didn’t tell him I was coming.” The older man grinned, shrugging as he motionedher inside. “He thought I might be able to lend a hand with whatever mystery you’re trying to solve. He’s sent me plenty of historic pieces over the years.” He gestured toward the box in her hands. “And from the sound of it, he was right to send you my way.”
She hadn’t told Flynn—but of course he’d called ahead. Always one step ahead. It should’ve reassured her. Instead, it felt like being nudged down a path she hadn’t chosen. Still… she wouldn’t pretend it didn’t make things easier. She exhaled through her nose. “I didn’t realize he’d called ahead, but… I’m here now, so let’s see what you think.”
Heather placed the box gently on his desk, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I found these in storage. I think they might be connected to my family’s history, but I’m unsure what to make of them.” Dr. Morrow leaned in, his hands resting on the desk as he examined the box like a treasure chest. “Ah, this looks promising!” He opened the lid with care, and his eyes widened when he saw the tattered flag and the piece of tartan. “By Saint Andrew! Do ye know what you’ve brought me here, lass?”
She shook her head, overwhelmed. Dr. Morrow’s fingers trembled as he turned the fabric, but his excitement barely registered. His words blurred at the edges of her consciousness—something about rarity, rebellion, and erasure. She nodded along, but it felt like she was watching the moment happen from outside herself.
Likeshewas the artifact.
“After Culloden, the British burned most of them to erase any trace of rebellion.”
