Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Iwoke to the soft glow of pale winter light slipping through the curtains, and the first thing I felt was… unsettled. Like something had been knocked loose inside me overnight. Like last night’s moment on the ice had followed me into my dreams and refused to let me sleep.
I kept seeing Brianna. Her breath catching, her fingers curled in my coat. The way her eyes had widened when I caught her, as if she’d felt the shift too. Every time I shut my eyes, I felt the ghost of her against me again. Warm. Soft. Real.
I then did the only thing my rattled brain could cling to: I avoided seeing her.
I told myself it was logical. That giving her space after whatever that moment was would be respectful. But the truth was simpler: I had absolutely no idea what to do with the way my chest tightened every time I thought of her.
I tried to busy myself. I showered, got dressed, stared at the same clause in a valuation contract for twenty minutes without reading a word, and reread emails twice and still couldn’t explain what any of them said.
But, by late morning, frustration clawed beneath my ribs, and I escaped downstairs just to breathe.
The hotel was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that made every sound softer. The low chuff of the radiators. The distant clatter in the kitchen. Boots drying on racks near the entrance, snow melting into dark patches on the stone floor.
It was an old-world place, warm in a way no London hotel had ever been.
Thick tartan carpets, old pine wood beams with Brass lamps that cast pools of amber light.
Photographs covering every spare inch of wall space, not generic stock images, but real memories of Pine Hollow over the years.
Families posing after winter storms. Teenagers clutching fishing nets.
Couples dancing at long-forgotten balls.
I wandered slowly, letting my fingers brush the frames.
Anything to keep my mind from drifting back to her.
But then I reached a photograph I’d never noticed before or maybe I’d been too wrapped up in myself to see it until now.
Black and white. Slightly faded. A woman and a man standing side by side, both laughing at something out of frame.
Snow piled around them. The town hall rising behind them with wreaths hung across its stone entrance.
The woman wore a tartan scarf and a smile so bright it lit her whole face.
The man… the women, looked strangely familiar.
My lungs stalled.
The man's jawline. His eyes, her smile and laughter. Even the way he carried his shoulders, confident but relaxed. It was unmistakable. I was staring at the younger versions of my grandparents.
Younger. Lighter. Happy in a way I had never once seen him in my lifetime and before I could gather myself, a voice came from behind me.
“I thought you might come across that one eventually.”
I turned. The hotel cleaner, Mrs. Smith stood there with a folded towel under one arm, her expression soft.
“I didn’t realise how much I looked like him,” I managed, still staring at the photograph.
“You do,” she said. “It fair knocked the breath out of me when you arrived last week. Took me back decades all at once.”
I swallowed, unable to tear my gaze from my grandfather’s face. “I knew he came here, well I guessed but, I didn’t know he met my grandmother here.”
“Oh, he came every summer,” she said, stepping closer. “Stayed in this very hotel. Practically lived in the common room during storms, talking everyone’s ear off.” Her smile warmed. “And Elspeth was never far behind.”
“Elspeth,” I repeated, though the name already curled around something deep inside me. “I didn’t even know she was from here”
“Mhmm, born and bred Scottish lady she was,” she confirmed softly.
My throat tightened painfully. I had so few memories of her. Mostly, fleeting images of warm hands and humming while she cooked, fading long before I was old enough to understand her absence.
“She was my best friend,” Mrs. Smith said. “We were inseparable until she followed Andrew back to London.”
She touched the corner of the frame lovingly, her eyes misting with memory.
“We always thought she’d come back for a visit. Show off the city life she’d fallen into. But she never did. And after she passed…” Her voice softened further. “Well. Andrew came once. Stayed just here. Sat by the fire three nights running. He wasn’t quite the same man after that.”
Something inside me twisted sharply.
All my life, my grandfather had been a steady, unmovable force, strict, thoughtful, sometimes distant. But I’d never imagined this version of him: a young man in love. A man who ran from heartbreak. A man who returned to this place when grief swallowed him whole.
I barely recognised him. And yet… I did.
Mrs. Smith studied me for a moment before saying, “Pine Hollow held pieces of him, Oliver. I’m glad you’re here to see it.”
“I wish I’d known,” I whispered.
“Some stories,” she said gently, “are too painful to tell. Be sure to look around more, you may find his memory in other places.”
She left me then, disappearing into the laundry room with quiet footsteps, leaving me alone with the photograph and the swirl of feelings I couldn’t untangle.
I stared at my grandfather’s face for a long time. Happy and alive. Rooted in this little town in a way I’d never realised. It made something in my chest ache for reasons I couldn’t explain.
After a while, I went back upstairs, opened the old envelope I’d been ignoring since the reading of the will, and unfolded the note he’d left for me.
Take your time, Oliver. Pine Hollow has more to offer than you might think. Enjoy it here, just like I did.
- Andrew
My breath caught. This wasn’t a legal instruction. It wasn’t a formality, almost like an invitation. A nudge, pieces left of him he hoped I’d follow. To this town, to its people. To something more than the life I’d been clinging to in London.
And suddenly, the reason he’d insisted I handle his estate became painfully, beautifully clear. He wanted me to see what he had once found here. What he’d lost and perhaps he hoped I might discover for myself.
I pressed the letter against my leg, fingers trembling slightly. I wasn’t ready to face Brianna today. Not yet. Not when everything inside me felt unsteady, cracked open, raw.
But tomorrow… Tomorrow I will walk into that bakery. Tomorrow I would see her smile again, watch her tuck that stray curl behind her ear. Listen to her talk about pastries and pine forests and traditions I’d never known. Tomorrow, I’d let myself breathe around her.
Because Pine Hollow had more to offer than I might think. There was one person in particular, I couldn’t stop thinking about.