Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
The cottage is still except for the rustle of birds in the trees outside.
Early blue light drifts through the curtains, soft and cool.
Her book sits open on the bedside table, tabs marking the lines I couldn’t let go of.
I don’t know what wakes me, a dream, or the way her quiet lingers in the room after she’s gone.
She didn’t say much when she left, and neither did I. We didn’t need to. She came, I made space, and we breathed. That’s what I hold onto. Neither of us is walking away.
The tea from last night sits cold on the windowsill.
I sit up, the ache low and heavy, not from sleep, but from everything that came before it.
I move to the kitchen, switching on the coffee machine, sliding two slices of bread into the toaster.
It isn’t hunger that drives me, just routine and something steady to hold onto when everything else feels new.
Music hums faintly in my mind before I even reach for it. I cross to the record player and drop the needle on an old jazz record. Static, then brass, soft and warm. The familiar rhythm anchors the morning, giving the silence shape.
My phone lies where I left it, face down beside the lamp. I tell myself it’s probably dead, but the screen lights up with one missed call, a voicemail from Mum. I don’t press play. Not yet.
The toaster pops. I butter the toast automatically; thoughts still tangled in pages and memories. My mind drifts back to the lines I flagged in her book, the words I underlined twice, the way she looked when she said them out loud. The kiss I can’t stop replaying.
The line between her fiction and our life doesn’t feel blurry anymore, it feels like a map, one we’re both still learning how to read. And last night wasn’t the ending or the middle of it. It felt like the first marker.
I finish my coffee, slip on a clean shirt, and grab my keys. I glance once at the open book on the bedside table; at the line I’d marked before bed: Sometimes the story doesn’t begin until you stop running from it.
I unlock the door and step inside. The fairy lights blink on, washing the shelves in a soft golden glow. It’s early, too early, enough so that it makes you lower your voice without meaning to.
I wander between the aisles, fingertips brushing spines, the air thick with the faint scent of old paper and dust. The store feels different this morning, like it’s holding its breath.
Carol’s old armchair waits in the corner, the arms worn smooth where her hands used to rest. She’d always called it the listening chair. I sit, the cushion sinking beneath me, and for a long moment, I just breathe.
Low and quiet, I say, ‘I don’t know if I’m doing this right. But I think I finally understand what you meant. About the shop. About the stories that stay.’
The room doesn’t answer. It doesn’t have to.
My eyes drift to the counter, to her book—Lilah’s. My chest tightens. ‘She’s one of them,’ I whisper. ‘The ones who walk in carrying more than they can say. The ones who think small is all they deserve.’
I pick up the journal from under the counter. The pen feels balanced, grounding me. I open to a blank page and write across the top
I set the pen aside and let my thumb rest against the paper. This has never been about filling shelves. It’s about making space for second chances, for Lilah, for anyone who needs reminding that their story still matters.
The bell above the door jingles, too loud against the hush of morning. I don’t need to look up. It can only be one person.
‘I come bearing caffeine,’ Jasper announces, setting two takeaway cups on the counter. ‘Also, they were out of that fancy oat milk you like, so congrats, you’re drinking full cream like the rest of us peasants.’
A small smile tugs at my mouth. ‘Thanks.’
He leans on the counter, watching me. ‘You okay?’
I don’t answer right away. I close the journal gently and slide it back beneath the counter. ‘Didn’t sleep much,’ I admit.
‘Didn’t think so.’ He nudges a cup towards me. ‘You’ve got that look. Like your brain’s been running laps while your body’s trying to keep up.’
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat soak into my palms. ‘I read something last night. Something that changed the way I see a lot of things.’
‘Good change or bad?’
‘Both.’ My gaze drifts to the display. ‘It felt like someone cracked themselves open and wrote it all down. I kept seeing myself in it, moments I thought were mine alone. It was like being known without anyone asking.’
He studies me for a beat. ‘That’s not just a book then.’
‘No. It isn’t.’
He takes a slow sip and doesn’t press. As simply as if it were the most obvious truth in the world, ‘Whatever you’re feeling is valid. It doesn’t have to make sense yet.’
My throat tightens. I nod. ‘Thanks.’
‘Anytime.’ He bumps my shoulder lightly. ‘I can be more than the comic relief, you know.’
That pulls a quiet laugh out of me. ‘I know.’
‘Good.’ He smirks. ‘But I’m still better at jokes.’
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. For a moment, it’s steady, not fixed.
When he leaves, I carry my phone into the back room. ‘Time to get this over with,’ I mutter, pressing play on the voicemail.
Mum’s voice fills the small space, warm and measured. ‘Sometimes the most important people in our lives don’t enter quietly,’ she says. ‘They arrive like a mirror we didn’t ask for but needed anyway.’
My chest tightens. That’s Lilah. The girl with the quiet stare, who edits herself mid-sentence, who kissed like it might break something but did it anyway. Who bled truth into pages she never thought anyone would read.
Mum’s final words land softly: ‘Call me when you’re ready. Just keep going. One page at a time.’
I don’t cry, but I keep my eyes closed long after the message ends.
This can be the chapter after the unravelling, the one that doesn’t explain everything, but promises not to run.
I slip my phone into my pocket and walk back out to the front of the shop. I flip the sign to “Open.” I’m not ready for everything, but I’m ready for this.
I move through the last of the closing routine, the float is counted, the lights are low, and every shelf has been straightened until it feels like order might hold the world together. Keys in hand, I head towards the door, Monty following closely.
Across the street, a man lingers beneath the lamppost. I haven’t seen him before. He looks like he’s waiting for someone, but when I step outside to lock up, he peels away from the shadows and crosses the street towards me.
‘Got a minute?’ he asks. His tone is casual, but his eyes are wired—restless.
‘We’re closed,’ I reply, keeping the door at my back.
He glances at the window display. ‘Lola Reid. Funny seeing her name here. Small town but smaller secrets.’
I say nothing.
He leans in, his breath sharp with something sour. ‘People should know who they’re reading. Put a face to the name. Maybe I’ll stand right here tomorrow and help them connect the dots.’
‘Step back,’ I tell him, voice low. ‘People are entitled to write under a pen name.’
His grin is thin. ‘You know her, do you? Bet you think you’re special. She’s been hiding for years. Costs money to keep that kind of thing hidden.’
My grip tightens around the keys. ‘You’re on camera, mate. The whole street is.’
He tips his head towards the bracket over the door. ‘Camera's glitch. Dead angles, it can happen.’ He leans in, voice pitched lower, ‘She still does her morning walk? Journal by that stupid tree?’
Cold creeps up my spine. I step forward, making him choose between rushing me or backing up. He doesn’t move. A couple wanders past, mid-conversation. He half-turns towards them, mouth already shaping the first syllable of her name.
‘Not here.’ My voice hardens. ‘You say one word to them, and this becomes a police matter. Last warning. Walk away.’
He shifts his weight like he belongs here, close enough to test the handle. He does. He gives it a deliberate little rattle. ‘Tick-tock,’ he murmurs, chin jerking at the display. ‘Secrets don’t stay hidden. Especially when the girl upstairs likes to sit in the window with the light on.’
The world narrows. I move my body into the threshold, and set my shoulder to the frame, key still in the lock.
‘You are trespassing,’ I say, clear and slow.
‘You are attempting to intimidate a customer of this store. You come back, you raise her name to a single person outside this door, you step on this threshold again; there will be a restraining order, trespass notice, and I will put your face in every doorway on this street. You won’t be able to buy a coffee in Wattlewood Ridge without someone watching you leave. ’
Monty lets out a sharp hiss from behind my legs, back arched, fur puffed twice her size. It’s not playful. It’s a warning.
For a second, something calculating flickers across his face. He taps the glass again, harder this time. ‘Tomorrow,’ he spits. ‘Opening.’
‘Take one more step and you don’t leave on your feet.’
That lands. The smile cracks. He takes one pace back, then another. He turns, slow at first like he’s being generous, then faster until the dark swallows him.
Monty remains rigid, staring at the empty street long after he’s gone.
A low growl hums in her throat—more vibration than sound.
I stay where I am until he’s gone from sight.
I make sure to lock the deadbolt and test everything twice.
Inside, I brace both palms on the counter, my heartbeat pounding.
Only when I turn back inside does she move. She presses against my shin, sharp and insistent, like she’s confirming I’m still here. I bend and scoop her up. She’s still tense in my hands, heart beating fast under her ribs.
‘Hey,’ I murmur, stroking along her spine until the fur lies flat again. ‘Good girl. You did your job.’
She blinks at me, slow and deliberate, then tucks her face under my chin. I rest my jaw lightly against her head and breathe.
I replay it once, mentally noting his height, build, scuffed jacket cuffs; nicotine breath, the bench comment; the handle test, his exact words.
I cross to the CCTV unit, pulling the time-stamped clip to a labelled drive, and slide it into the safe with the float.
If he comes back, I want a clean record and a clean line of consequences.
I wait thirty minutes with the lights low, watching the street through the slit of the blinds. When the night feels empty again, I lock up for real and step into the cold.