Chapter 12 #4
Something nagged at him as he scanned the desk.
One of her other notebooks—the blue one, the one with her swirly, artistic initials on the cover—wasn’t here.
He’d watched her carry it everywhere. She’d been working on something in it near the end, something she wouldn’t show him, something she said was a surprise.
He got up. Checked the desk more carefully. The shelves. The stack of books by the window.
Not there.
His chest tightened. Had someone moved it? Had it been lost in the shuffle after she died, thrown away by accident, donated with the things that didn’t matter?
Calm down.
Her voice. Clear as anything. The same tone she’d used when he’d panicked about deadlines, about reviews, about all the small catastrophes that felt enormous in the moment.
It’s not lost. You just don’t see it right now.
He stopped. Stood in the middle of her room and let the words settle.
It’s not lost. You just don’t see it right now.
Maybe she wasn’t talking about the notebook.
He returned to the bed. Sat back down. Picked up the leather notebook again and flipped to a page near the end—her handwriting, a note about the Thornwood series.
The protégé has to let go. Not of the love—never the love. Just the guilt. The paralysis. The belief that grieving means staying frozen forever.
She’d written that years ago. For the book.
But she’d written it for him too.
“I’m sorry I’ve been hiding.” His voice emerged rough. “I’m sorry I used you as an excuse. Every time I couldn’t write, every time I couldn’t leave the house, every time I couldn’t—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I blamed you. Not out loud. But I made your death the reason for everything.”
The moonlight shifted. A cloud passing, or just time moving the way it always did.
“You’d hate that. You spent your whole life fighting to stay alive, and I’ve been wasting mine. Hiding in this house. Talking to the dogs. Letting the words die.”
He looked at the corkboard. The photo of them at the first book launch—both grinning, champagne glasses raised, the whole future spread out ahead.
“The book is almost half done. Can you believe that?” He laughed, or something like it. “I didn’t think I could finish without you. But Livvie. She’s—” He shook his head. “Oh, Emma, she’s…she reminds me of hope. Of the things I was afraid to believe in. And yeah, I know, I should have kissed her.”
You like her.
“I like her.”
You more than like her.
“I more than like her.”
So what’s the problem?
“She’s going to leave. When the book is done. She’s going back to New York, and I’m going to be here alone again and—”
And what? You’ll survive? Like you’ve been surviving for three years?
He didn’t answer.
That’s not living, Nate. That’s just not dying.
“I know.”
So stop being an idiot. Finish the book. Kiss the girl.
He laughed. Actually laughed. It came out wet, somewhere between humor and grief.
He walked to her window. It looked out over the lawn to Lila’s house. Livvie’s light still burned.
“There’s a kid. Sam. Make-A-Wish. He wants to meet the author. And I’ve been avoiding the letter because meeting him means admitting the books are mine too. That I’m not just your—”
He couldn’t finish.
You were never just my anything. We wrote them together. But you’re still here, Nate. You get to keep writing. Don’t waste that.
“I miss you.”
I know.
“I’m always going to miss you.”
I know that too. A pause. Or what felt like a pause. Probably just his memories, conjuring up what she might say next. But missing me doesn’t mean you have to stop living. It just means you carry me with you while you do.
He stood. Crossed to her desk. Took the sticky note from the corkboard—her handwriting about the protégé, about letting go.
It’s not lost. You just don’t see it right now.
“I think I’m ready, Em.”
He tucked the sticky note in his pocket. Brushed his hand over the gray cardigan draping her chair.
“I think I’m ready to live again.”
He left the room. Closed the door gently behind him.
The hallway was dark, but it felt different now. The house was still quiet, but the silence had changed, no longer empty but expectant. Like something had been waiting for him to catch up.
He walked back to his desk. Sat down. The cursor still blinked on the document where he’d left it.
He scrolled up, found the scene he’d been avoiding for weeks.
The one where Morvain’s apprentice was standing at his mentor’s grave.
The one that required him to write grief honestly—not the poetic kind, not the distant kind, but the ugly specific kind that lived in your chest and made it hard to breathe.
He started typing.
The words came. Not easily—but they came. Raw and rough and true.
Aldric stood at the grave as the sun set, and he did not know how to be a person who existed in a world where his mentor did not.
This was the truth he’d been avoiding. Not that Master Morvain was dead—he knew that, had known it for months, had watched the light leave his eyes. But knowing and accepting were different kingdoms, separated by a wall he could not scale.
But just like the Wall of Sorrow, this wasn’t stone. It wasn’t magic.
It was just fear.
Fear that moving forward meant leaving Morvain behind. Fear that wanting things—wanting to complete the quest, wanting to master his power, wanting to live—was a betrayal of the man who’d given everything so Aldric could survive.
But standing at this grave, in the fading light, Aldric understood something he hadn’t before.
The dead didn’t want him to stop living.
They wanted him to live enough for both.
He wrote until his eyes burned. Until the words blurred and his fingers ached and the scene was done—not polished, not perfect, but true.
He sat back. Wiped his face. His sleeve came away wet.
Crying. He’d been crying and hadn’t noticed.
He leaned back, ran his hands through his hair. Glanced at the clock. Sheesh. Morning was a wink away. He needed sleep.
But his brain still buzzed.
His gaze fell on the Make-A-Wish envelope sitting on the corner of his desk. Cream-colored. Official. It had been sitting there for weeks, and he’d been pretending it didn’t exist.
He picked it up now. Pulled out the letter inside.
Handwritten. Shaky letters on lined paper.
Dear Mr. Rivers,
My name is Sam. I’m eleven years old. I’ve read all the Thornwood books four times. My favorite character is Aldric because he’s scared but he does brave things anyway. My mom says that’s what courage is.
I’m sick. I’ve been sick for a long time. The doctors say I might not get better. But that’s okay because I got to read your books and they made me feel like I was somewhere else. Somewhere magic could happen.
I know you’re probably really busy, but I was hoping maybe I could meet you someday. I have a lot of questions about the ending. My Make-A-Wish person said I could ask for anything and I asked for this.
Thank you for writing the books.
Your friend, Sam
P.S. My mom says to tell you the books helped her too. When I was in the hospital she would read them out loud and we would both pretend we were somewhere else. She says you gave us something to hold on to.
He read it twice. Three times.
His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with grief.
He set the letter down carefully.
Blew out a breath and opened his email. Started typing.
Dear Make-A-Wish Foundation,
I would be honored to meet Sam. Please let me know how to arrange it.
—Nate Rivers
He didn’t send it. Tomorrow. He’d show Livvie first. She’d want to help. She’d want to be there.
And shoot if that thought didn’t wake him up.
He wanted to make her happy. The realization settled over him, simple and enormous. He wanted to see her face when she read Sam’s letter. Wanted to watch her eyes light up. Wanted to—
He got up. Crossed to the window again. Indeed, the faintest hint of dawn burned in the east, the dark sky lightening, the stars blurring.
I’m ready.
Ready to finish the book. Ready to meet Sam. Ready to tell Livvie—
What? That she mattered? That he couldn’t write without her? That somewhere between the coffee and the candles and the paint on her face, he’d started falling for her?
Aw, he’d already fallen, long ago. Had always wanted her to stay.
Now…however…the thought of her leaving could just about crumple him.
His chest knotted. She had a life in New York, a career to save, a world that didn’t include a hermit author and his dogs and a lake house full of ghosts.
He turned from the window. The photograph on his shelf caught the early-morning light—the sixteen-year-old boy, grinning, holding his certificate. Emma’s sticky note was tucked in the frame now.
The protégé has to let go.
He had.
Not of Emma. Not of the love. Not of the missing. But of the fear of losing it all. He needed to look to the other side and not let the what-ifs leave him cold. Paralyzed.
Or…he had a week to figure out how to ask her to stay.
He turned off the lamp. The room went dark except for moonlight through the window, painting silver patterns on the floor.
Tomorrow didn’t feel like something to survive anymore.
He was looking forward to it.