Chapter 2 #3
The second box held bowls and side plates, each bearing a tiny embossed M.W. on the bottom— Malcolm’s initials, pressed before firing.
The third box was her favourite. Mugs.
Each one had its own shape: pinched, full-bellied, thin-lipped, heavy-handled.
The glazes were warmer now: sand, blush, a soft butter yellow that reminded her of her bedroom walls back at the house.
Her hand drifted to one with a checkered cream-and-white pattern and gentle curves like an old lava lamp. It made her smile without knowing why.
Malcolm picked up another, this one blue-grey, stormy and smooth. He turned it slowly, watching the way the light caught. “She called this one ‘low tide.’ Said it reminded her of when the harbour empties out and everything smells like seaweed and old secrets.”
Hazel laughed, soft and real. “She always had a flair for drama.”
A smile tugged at Malcolm’s mouth. “She earned it.”
The ease between them lingered, unspoken but understood.
Like a hallway wave in ninth grade exchanged with someone who never said much but always made space.
She remembered his quiet presence at the edges of rooms, the pencil tucked behind his ear even back then, the way he’d nod if he caught her eye when her grandmother chatted with his mom by the register at Greyfin.
They unpacked in silence after that. The space around them filled with the rustle of paper, the occasional clink of ceramic on stone and the slow, steady tick of the antique clock still waiting to be mounted.
A rhythm took shape between them and in some ways it was familiar, but in others, it was all new.
“I wanted to say…” Malcolm began a few beats later, setting down a wide-rimmed saucer with more care than necessary, his fingers lingering at the edge. “I’m really sorry I missed the funeral.”
Hazel looked up, surprised.
He didn’t meet her eyes at first. His gaze flicked instead to the counter, then to the stack of plates they’d just unwrapped, as though searching for the right words in the glossy smoothness of the glaze.
“I was out of the country,” he continued, the words gentle as they landed.
“My first vacation in years, if you’d believe it.
One of my closest friends from art school was getting married in Portugal and I’d booked everything months ago.
By the time I heard what had happened, it was already too late to get back in time. It felt like it all happened so fast.”
As he spoke, he ran his thumb along the rim of the saucer, over and over, like he didn’t realize he was doing it.
His shoulders had gone still, held a little too straight, like he was bracing for something.
A shadow passed through his expression— not guilt exactly, but something adjacent.
A quiet ache. Regret tempered by memory, softened at the edges by affection.
Hazel softened, too, the edges of her posture easing as she nodded. “It did. One minute she was fine, just a little tired… and then—“ Her voice caught, eyes pressing shut for a beat before she managed to pull herself back together. “Yeah. It happened fast.”
“I would’ve been there if I could,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. His voice was quiet but certain, and his eyes held something more open in them now. Something unguarded and deeply sad.
“I know,” she said. And she did.
They fell back into rhythm after that, the silence between them denser now. Not uncomfortable, but heavier. Full of truths too late to change and all the kindness that might still grow in their wake.
“She’d be really glad you’re here,” Malcolm said, eventually. “She was worried you’d stay in Boston forever.”
Hazel smiled, though it felt like habit more than feeling. She folded her arms and leaned against the counter, letting the words settle before answering.
“I think I was worried too,” she admitted. “It still doesn’t really feel real. It’s like I’m borrowing someone else’s life… like any second, someone’s going to come in and ask what I’m doing here.”
He nodded, his gaze trailing over the shelving behind her. “I get that. More than you know.”
She turned towards him, really looking this time. His jaw was sharper than she remembered, his shoulders heavier— not in posture, but in presence. There were years in his eyes. Not unkind ones, just lived-in, worn like sea glass.
“When did you come back?” she asked.
“Three years ago,” he said, voice dropping with a softened edge. “After my mom passed.”
Hazel stilled. The words settled with weight.
She remembered a phone call, years earlier, her grandmother’s voice gentle near the end.
“Malcolm’s mom has passed, peacefully. After a long, long fight.
” She remembered the shake of her grandmother’s voice as she said the words, and then the silence that followed, both over the line and in her own chest. The ache of not knowing what to say, and being too far away to say it anyway.
And beyond that, guilt began to trickle in, a steady stream that often turned to a puddle, low in her chest. A quiet, incessant reminder— visit your mother, Hazel, she whispered to herself, trying to convince herself that it was never nearly as bad as she always remembered it being.
“I remember,” she said, that same ache lingering within her. “Gram told me. I didn’t realize that’s when you left Chicago.”
“I’d been meaning to come back sooner. Maybe not to live, but at least to visit…” he murmured, twisting one of the silver rings around and around his pointer finger, the motion slow, almost unconscious. “But it took something big to actually do it. Funny how that works.”
Hazel’s throat tightened again and she felt her cheeks warm.
She knew parts of Malcolm’s life— how he’d gone to art school in Chicago, sold his work through a gallery downtown, curated shows that appeared now and then in posts she always liked from a distance.
For a long time, she’d watched from afar.
But at some point, when her own life became breathless and worn thin, she’d stopped keeping up.
Not just with him, but with everyone. Fading into the background had always been second nature to Hazel.
Her gaze flicked to the edge of one of the boxes, as if it might hold the answer to a question she couldn’t name.
“Yeah,” she said. “I know the feeling.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The silence pulsed, not empty, but full of everything they hadn’t said.
Malcolm picked up the mug she’d lingered on earlier. He turned it slowly, holding it like something delicate.
“You should keep this one,” he said, offering it to her. “Put it aside for the mornings you don’t want to get out of bed. Or the ones that hit hard.”
Hazel blinked. The words landed in a place she hadn’t realized was still hollow. They shifted against a jagged edge inside her and she barely managed to keep herself still, to avoid the flinch.
“You mean every morning?”
His smile came slow. “Exactly.”
She reached out and their fingers brushed as he passed it to her, just for a second. She curled her hands around the empty mug and held it close, imagining it filled— steam rising, warmth spreading across her palms. Something solid to hold onto.
It was hard to picture… but less hard than before. That had to count for something.
“Thanks for bringing them,” she said.
“Thanks for being here to receive them.”
Their eyes met and something passed between them— quiet but sure, a flicker of shared history and something gentle regrowing in the space between.
It wasn’t just gratitude, it was recognition.
Of each other. Of the strange, stubborn ache of loss.
Of the way people could come back into your life not as strangers, but as softer echoes of who they used to be, still familiar beneath the dust.
Malcolm shifted, his eyes drifting away. “I can stick around, if you want. Help shelve them.”
Hazel shook her head. “I think I need to do that part on my own.”
She said it automatically and too fast, maybe.
Because the truth was, she didn’t know how to accept help like that.
Not without bracing for the shift in someone’s face, the edge in their tone when it became inconvenient.
She’d learned, a long time ago, that offers didn’t always mean what they sounded like.
That people didn’t always follow through on the things they’d promised.
Better to keep it easy, manageable. Hers. Better to be alone, in case the ache returned.
Malcolm nodded, unsurprised.
And then he stepped back toward the front door, one hand bracing against the frame. Late morning light caught the tips of his dark hair, and for a moment, Hazel saw the boy he’d been— quiet, observant, and kind. Not much had changed.
The door clicked shut behind him after he said goodbye, and the silence returned.
Hazel stood in the center of the bakery, the checkered mug still in her hands.
She looked around. The space didn’t feel empty, but it didn’t feel full, either.
It felt suspended in a sort of in-between, a purgatory filled with nothing but question after question. And only Hazel could provide clarity.
One by one, she unwrapped the remaining pieces. The paper crinkled softly, each layer revealing something different: imperfect curves, thumbprint textures, glazes that caught the light.
She took her time shelving them. Not just placing them, but listening— letting their shapes and colours suggest where they belonged. Most found a home on the open shelving behind the counter, where one day she might ask, “Pick a mug?”
She grouped some by glaze, others she scattered by shape or mood. One that stood out was tall, elegant, and faintly iridescent, so she placed it at the center of the shelf, where it could catch the faintest hint of sun through the papered front window.
The overflow she wrapped up again, sliding into the cabinet below. For quiet days, for breakages. For the customers who didn’t want to choose, or who needed a second cup.