Chapter 29 #2
We return to sorting through my family’s belongings, but I can’t focus anymore.
I fold the same tablecloth three times.
Put dishes into the wrong boxes.
Ailsa says nothing.
She hums softly and watches me out of the corner of her eye.
I try to focus on the sorting.
On the methodical task that’s supposed to keep my mind occupied.
But my gaze keeps drifting back to the window.
To the empty garden.
To the road leading toward the village.
I’m waiting for a sign.
Even if I refuse to admit it.
Even if I pretend I’m folding sheets with meticulous concentration.
I’m waiting.
“Expecting someone?” Ailsa asks innocently.
I shoot her a glare.
“Not at all.”
She smiles behind her sheet.
An hour passes.
Then two.
I make tea and cookies I never eat.
Eventually Ailsa plants her hands on her hips.
“Clem, you’re going to wear a hole through the floor at this rate.”
“I am not.”
“You’ve walked back and forth six times in twenty minutes.”
“I was thirsty.”
“Six times?”
I don’t answer.
She sits beside me on the green sofa.
“You know you could call him,” she says gently.
“Call who?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not calling him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the one who ruined everything. He’s the one who turned our life into Instagram content. He’s the one who has to make the first move.”
“He’s making one now, isn’t he? With the animals and the objects?”
I stare at my hands.
“It’s storytelling. That’s all he knows how to do.”
“So?”
“So... I don’t know if it’s enough.”
“What would you want him to do? Or say?”
The question catches me off guard.
I don’t know.
An apology?
He already apologized.
An explanation?
He already explained everything.
A promise?
Promises mean nothing if behavior doesn’t change.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Ailsa rests her head on my shoulder.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of trusting him again. Of giving him another chance. Of choosing to stay despite everything and having him disappoint you all over again.”
Her words settle in my chest like a truth I never wanted to hear.
“It’s normal to be scared,” she continues. “But you can’t let fear make the decision for you.”
I don’t answer.
We sit in silence surrounded by folded sheets and half-filled boxes.
My gaze drifts toward the window.
Again.
The garden remains empty.
Ailsa makes fresh tea because mine has gone cold.
We drink it in the kitchen while carefully avoiding any discussion of the three objects on the table.
“Do you want me to stay tonight?” she asks.
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I’m lying.
And she knows it.
But she doesn’t push.
Soon dusk will settle over the Highlands.
The sky will shift from gray to deep violet.
The hills will become shadows.
And I’ll be alone in this enormous manor.
Ailsa stands to leave.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I promise.”
“I mean it, Clem. Anytime. One word and I’m here.”
“I know.”
She hugs me tightly.
Then she leaves.
I remain alone in the kitchen with three objects telling an unfinished story.
Unable to sit still, I get up.
Put away dishes that are already put away.
Wipe down a counter that is already spotless.
And then movement outside the window catches my attention.
My heart stumbles.
Hamish.
He’s here.
He crosses the garden slowly.
As though he’s carrying something precious.
Or something heavy.
My heart stops.
Hamish.
He was there from the very beginning.
He walked into the manor on my first day.
Refused to leave.
Chose me before I chose anything.
I hurry outside to meet him.
The evening air bites at my cheeks.
It smells like peat and wet grass.
Hamish stops at the foot of the steps.
In his mouth is something small and green.
He climbs the steps one by one with a solemnity that tightens my throat.
Then he stops in front of me and places a sprig of wild thyme at my feet.
Time stops.
The thyme.
The same herb Mairenn Fraser used in her teas.
The one that, in old Highland traditions, means:
I take care of you. I want you to stay.
Hamish watches me without moving.
As though waiting for something.
I kneel and pick up the thyme with trembling fingers.
Its scent is strong.
Fresh.
It smells like the Highlands.
Like the manor.
Like home.
Hamish rubs his head against my leg.
And this time, the tears come.
All of them.
Every tear I’ve held back since Cameron showed me that email and I realized he had turned our story into a marketing campaign.
I cry on the porch of Fraser Manor with a stubborn sheep leaning against me and a sprig of thyme clutched in my hand.
Hamish doesn’t move.
He stays there.
Solid.
Steady.
A loyal ally.
After a long while, he steps back.
Looks at me one last time with that impossible-to-read expression.
Then he turns and heads quietly back toward the village.
I watch him until he disappears into the gathering darkness.
Only then do I go inside.
I place the thyme beside the other three objects.
The candlestick.
The spoon.
The key.
The thyme.
Meeting.
Connection.
Truth.
Declaration.
Cameron orchestrated all of this.
He sent the animals.
He’s telling me our story in the only language he truly understands:
Storytelling.
Except this time, it isn’t a marketing campaign.
It’s a declaration.
I pick up the thyme and bring it to my face.
Breathing in deeply.
I take care of you.
I want you to stay.
My phone sits on the counter.
I could call him.
Right now.
This second.
But I don’t move.
Because first I need to understand what I want.
Because a sprig of thyme—even one delivered by Hamish, even one carrying all the symbolism of the Highlands—doesn’t change what happened.
Cameron betrayed me.
He turned our intimacy into content.
He shared our life without asking.
But he also deleted everything.
And now he’s sending animals carrying objects that tell our story.
I sit in the kitchen facing the four objects until night has fully fallen.
A story told without words.
A declaration without a voice.
A question asked by a man who has always had too many words and who, for the first time, has chosen silence.
I think about the wild thyme growing around the manor and what it means.
I think about the way Hamish looked at me, as though waiting for an answer.
The problem is, I still don’t know what answer I want to give.