Chapter 16
Wren
It is a universal truth that news never sleeps.
In every corner of the world, there is always a story of some kind, something newsworthy, like an accident or a tragedy, or a profound and unexpected twist of fate.
You might be in your kitchen, your living room, walking, running, driving, or simply going about your day…
news finds a way to seep into your awareness.
You might feel momentary sorrow or shock, but mostly you’ll return to whatever you were doing—some ordinary thing—because such events belong to others, not to you.
Such tragedy, or bereavement, or disaster only ever happens to other people.
Until one day, it doesn’t. And you realize tragedy doesn’t discriminate; it can happen to anyone.
Even you. And suddenly, you’re the headline no one ever wants to be, left searching for answers that may never come.
A week ago, I had been out searching for replacement banisters for the staircase, something sturdy with a bit of character.
It was one of those tasks I kept putting off, but that day, I’d finally decided to tackle it.
On my way back, I stumbled across a garage sale tucked into a corner of a quiet street.
I wasn’t intending to stop—I hadn’t planned to buy anything except the banisters, but something about it caught my eye.
Among the usual clutter of mismatched chairs, chipped dishes, and boxes of books, there it was: an old writing desk.
It was scratched and weathered, the kind of thing that most people wouldn’t give a second glance.
But I couldn’t stop looking at it. It reminded me of the desk I used to write on back in New York, the one Lucy had convinced me to buy because she said it looked like a place where stories could begin.
I bought it without much thought, just as I bought this one, as though some part of me knew I needed it.
I brought it back to the house, sanded it down, repainted it, and placed it in front of the big bay windows in the living room.
It overlooked the front garden, with the wildflowers and the pine trees, and the busy honeybees.
I had danced with this writing desk all week.
Approaching it every morning, and then turning away.
I was busy with painting, and was still trying to fix the patio and repair the broken railings, but every now and then I’d wander inside and stare at the damn desk.
Do I sit down? Don’t I? Do I? And so on and so forth.
Today was no different, only I’d managed to actually sit in the chair.
I stared down at the notebook in front of me.
I’d written the date at the top of the page.
I’d always hated my handwriting, but Lucy loved it.
She would insist that I write on paper first, so that she could keep the journals and notebooks I wrote in.
She did keep them all, in a trunk at the foot of our bed.
Her keepsakes, she called them. I closed my eyes, picturing the trunk.
It was made from beautiful cedarwood, its brass bindings dulled by time.
It was etched with scratches and wear, and we’d carved our initials at the very bottom.
The trunk snapped shut, and I turned from where I had been sorting through our laundry.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Lucy smiled, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes. “Just organizing things,” she replied. Her tone was casual, and yet I knew she was hiding something.
I arched an eyebrow. “Organizing what exactly?” I replied, and I stepped around the bed to the trunk.
“What are you hiding in there?”
She tried to stop me from opening it, laughing as I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her gently aside, before opening the lid. There were journals and notebooks stacked neatly inside, all the ones she had insisted I use to write poems and annotations and whatever else came to mind.
“These are all my notebooks,” I said curiously.
“Yes,” she replied. “They’re memories, all here, tucked away in this trunk. I want to make sure you can always return to them.”
I laughed, pulling on her sweater. “Why would I need them, when I have you?”
“Because what you write is important,” she said. “And one day you will realize you don’t need me to write.”
“Impossible,” I replied. “You’re the muse.”
She shook her head, cupped my face in her hands. “You’re the writer,” she said softly. “If not me, then something else. It’s in your heart, Bee. Just always write what is in your heart.”
I blinked away the memory. Since Lucy had been gone, I’d wondered what to do with the guilt.
It started with days, then weeks, then months, and then a whole year went by, and more.
How long was long enough? Or will it be forever?
But forever wasn’t long enough while she was still alive, so whatever made me think it would be long enough when she was gone?
But there was Olivia.
And then there was my heart.
And somehow, the two had collided.
There were two ravens picking at something on the fence line, their glossy black feathers glistening in the pale light of the cloudy day.
They cawed, jumped, alighted onto the fence once more, before taking off into the sky.
I watched them from the window, still looking from the notebook to my computer, to the garden outside.
I sat down, exhaled slowly, and opened the notebook.
The news of Winnie crushed Emerson. Henry was devastated, and I knew the rest of the group would be crushed too.
Olivia was shocked when I told her. I knew that there was no way to shield any of us from the grief, but there was still something small I could do: I could write about it.
I could give them words, banded together; comfort, something to hold on to.
I could write them a book; I knew how to do that.
The manuscript I had been reading to Lucy on the evening of the accident was a poetry collection.
My first in over a decade. The publishers were thrilled; my team couldn’t wait.
There was an electricity to it all—something special.
I had already known what I wanted to call it: Thinking of You.
Back then, it was about Lucy, every word a reflection, a love letter.
But time had passed, and I was not the same.
I still thought of her, but I also thought of them, this group of people who showed up carrying grief in their arms but who still found ways to laugh.
It occurred to me that thinking of you is something we say when we’re in love, and also when we’re grieving.
We say it for anniversaries and funerals, for hospital beds and wedding days, for beginnings and endings.
It means I care, I miss you, you’re in my heart.
There was a flutter, a commotion outside the window.
I saw a flash of blue before noticing a small bluebird perched on a branch just outside.
Its vibrant plumage lit up the garden. One of the ravens had returned, and also settled on the same branch, and the contrast stirred a thought: could grief and joy exist together, like this raven and bluebird?
I wrote Thinking of You at the top of the page.
I tried to breathe steadily, the softness of the late morning sunlight filling my lungs.
It was time to finish what I had started, even though it was different now, reshaped by what I had lost, but also everything I had gained.
Once I began to write, I couldn’t seem to stop, not even when the sun began to sink, and the birds had long parted ways.
But even so, the more I wrote across the pages, the more it began to feel like I was finally coming home.
When I arrived at the library for our meeting, Henry was rummaging in the return box. He was making loud clanking noises, and I realized that he was trying to pry something out of it.
“Do you want some help?” I asked.
He turned, slightly startled. “Wren,” he said, with a relieved smile. “Hi, yes, actually, could you just hold this for me?”
He indicated to the hinged flap, and I awkwardly pushed it inward as he reached farther into the bin. After a moment, we heard a gurgled squeak, before Henry pulled out a neon-colored rubber chicken.
“Why?” I asked simply.
He smirked. “You know, I have thought about putting a camera on this return box, just to see who in this town deems it appropriate to shove a rubber chicken in.”
“If she wasn’t dealing with everything right now, I’d say a prank like that wouldn’t be so far out of the realm of Emerson,” I replied.
Henry laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “I’m going to tell the group this evening,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “I suspected you would. Has she spoken to you?”
“Oh, eventually,” he replied sadly. “When I dropped off Winnie’s things, she was still there.”
I nodded. “You were just doing what Winnie asked.”
“I know,” he replied. “But Emerson is sensitive. I should have said something.”
I could see him wrestling with himself as I checked my watch. “Let’s get inside before everyone arrives to find you digging more garbage out of the return box.”
He nodded quickly and followed me inside.
Max was already sitting in the reading corner; Max was never early.
He had one leg crossed over the other, writing in a notebook.
I’d never asked what he wrote down in that book, but I thought that perhaps one day I would.
I found a seat and sat down. Gill and Rita arrived next, bickering over the rules of basketball.
Bobby and Julian followed just after them.
My heart fluttered when Olivia rushed through the doors; we locked eyes, and she came to sit down beside me.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Are you?”