September 19, Thursday
THE BELL above the door of Blakemore Books pealed as I entered, the familiar scent of paper and possibility washing over me. I decided I would learn to love bookstores again when I returned to New York.
My eyes landed on a prominent display of my mother's latest literary triumph, Echoes of Her Silence. The back cover copy described yet another story about a daughter gone bad. I sighed as I returned the book to the splashy display. I found my own "Skirts" romance series tucked away in a corner like a dirty little secret.
"Hi, Josephine."
I turned to smile at Dora. "Hello. I'm supposed to meet Wayne." I tapped the boxed manuscript I held. I was finally going to return his manuscript and give him my thoughts for getting it ready for submission. "Is he here?"
Dora's face fell. "You haven’t heard? Wayne's in the hospital."
I gasped. "What happened?"
"He collapsed last night when he was closing the store. They think it was a heart attack. He's in intensive care… it's touch and go."
Wayne's manuscript suddenly felt very heavy. "How terrible. I'll be keeping him in my thoughts."
"I know he'd appreciate that," Dora murmured, then she held out her hand. "You can leave the manuscript with me, I'll make sure it's safe until he's feeling better."
I hesitated, my hand instinctively tightening around the box. The manuscript inside wasn't just pages of a story anymore. It was a piece of Wayne, his dreams and ambitions poured onto paper. And now, with him fighting for his life, it felt more precious than ever.
"Thanks," I said softly. "But I think I'll hang onto it for now. I'll give Wayne my thoughts in person when he's recovered."
Dora nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Of course."
As I left the bookstore, the weight of Wayne's manuscript seemed to anchor me to the ground. Life was so fragile, so unpredictable.
I biked back to The Whisper House and later, I walked to the graveyard to lock the gate. The place seemed especially tranquil this evening. I stepped inside and walked among the weathered headstones and felt a strange sense of peace wash over me.
Tending to this place had taught me more than I'd realized. Every name etched in stone was a reminder of how precious and precarious our time here was. And yet, there was comfort in it too. We'd all end up here eventually, our stories intertwining like the roots of the old oak trees that kept watch over the dead.
I found myself at Rose Whisper's grave, my fingers tracing the smooth stone Sawyer had so mysteriously repaired.
"I'm starting to understand why you came back here, Rose. There's something about this place that puts things in perspective."
As if in response, a cool breeze rustled through the trees, sending a shower of golden leaves spiraling down around me. I closed my eyes, breathing in the earthy scent of autumn and mortality.
When I opened them again, I felt different. Lighter, somehow. The drama with Curtis, the curse, even my writer's block—it all seemed so small in the grand scheme of things.
I patted Rose's headstone gently. "Thanks for the lesson," I whispered, then turned to head back to the house.
It was time to stop hiding and start living. After all, who knew how many pages I had left in my own story?