Chapter 5
Chapter five
The mountains lift into view just past the bend, blue and hazy in the late light. I ease off the accelerator and crack the window. Cold air and the smell of eucalyptus hit me, as gravel flicks up at the car. A weathered wooden sign waits at the shoulder.
‘Welcome to Wattlewood Ridge - Where the mountains hum with stories.’
I read it once and let it sit.
Carol used to swear this town had a pulse—low, steady, easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention.
She never overlooked anything. She heard things the rest of us walked right past. She’d remember a stranger’s name six months later and guide them to the exact bookshelf they didn’t even realise they were searching for.
I roll my shoulders, check the fuel, and flick the wipers on once to clear dust. I brace for it at the town line: grief, guilt, and that sharp feeling that comes when something’s over.
Instead, what I get is smaller, quieter. Like a room after everyone leaves.
I shift down a gear for the roundabout; shopfronts slide by, a bakery with its blinds half-down, a kid on a scooter, crates of oranges being stacked. It feels ordinary, no performance or magic in the air.
I breathe and my chest loosens. Not a reset exactly, just ground I can stand on.
This isn’t meant to be permanent. I am just here to settle the estate, square the accounts, give the store a fresh paint and a tidy listing. A few months at most, then back to my life that doesn’t have a bookshop in it. That’s the plan I keep repeating like it’ll stick.
I pull into a gravel turn-off just past the welcome sign, kill the engine, and sit with the tick of cooling metal. A bird laughs somewhere up in the trees. Below, the town sits out of sight. I reach across the seat for the worn envelope Carol sent. The flap is soft from handling.
Inside: a brass key to the front door of Turn the Page, a creased map of the Ridge, and a line in her steady hand, “For the stories that haven’t been told yet. They’re waiting for you.”
I let out a heavy breath. ‘Okay, Carol,’ I say into the quiet. ‘Let’s see.’
Gravel pops under the tyres as I nose back onto the bitumen. The mountains rise ahead, blue and close, not a promise, just a direction.
I roll down the main street. Same wattle, same angle-parked utes, a few new shopfronts tucked between the old ones.
I need coffee. I pull in outside Sweet Fern Pantry and head in. Big glass windows let the sun blast into the cafe. Too much light for this hour. Two girls chat behind the counter, looking like they are barely out of school.
‘Hey! Don’t think I’ve seen you here before,’ one chirps, all sunshine.
‘Just here for a few months,’ I say. That’s all I’ve got for small talk. ‘Biggest long black you do, thanks.’
She elbows her mate. ‘No worries, it’ll be about five minutes.’
The place is empty, but sure. I drift to the window.
From here I can see the street; clean as a photo, with chalkboard menus, a florist untying buckets, and a hatchback with the boot up.
A dark-haired woman is stacking boxes onto the path by the car.
She is all focus like she’s racing the clock.
Something in me wants to cross the road and grab the boxes out for her, this pull.
‘Here you go, handsome,’ the girl says. She slides the cup across; her number scrawled on the lid. ‘In case you need a tour guide.’
‘Uh, cheers.’ I take the coffee.
By the time I step back onto the footpath, the woman with the boxes is gone.
The winter sun slips behind the peaks as I pull up at the cottage. It’s small and tired looking, weathered boards with flaking paint, a creaky porch swing, and ferns spilling over the veranda.
I unlock the door, and the scent hits first: citrus polish, old timber, dust warmed by the sun through lace curtains.
It’s unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Carol’s furniture is still here.
The couch with the patched armrest, the pine table marked with faint coffee rings, the mismatched chairs she refused to replace because they “still had life left.”
I set my bag down and stand there a moment, letting the silence draw close. No trams. No traffic. Just the whisper of trees and the rhythmic hum of crickets.
The kitchen is small but perfectly functional, a space built for one person who knows how to make it enough.
I fill the kettle out of habit rather than thirst. The cupboards are mostly bare besides, two jars of honey; an enamel tin of tea, and a single chipped bowl.
There is something comforting in the simplicity.
When I unwrap my old mug and run my thumb over the handle, I feel the ghost of routine settle in.
Sundays with my grandfather that had smelled like newsprint and cinnamon.
How he used to hum as he circled crossword clues in neat black ink.
The ritual feels the same now, quiet, and steady.
Tea doesn’t taste right without this mug.
Everywhere I look, Carol lingers, as if the house remembers her—almost haunting.
The indents in the armchair cushion, the teacup left on the sill, the row of novels beside the radio.
Her presence is woven through the place so completely, that it feels wrong to move anything, as if tidying would erase her.
I open the side window, testing the latch before wedging it with a folded coaster.
The floor dips near the stove, and the door sticks slightly when I try to close it.
I make a note to plane it tomorrow. A shelf of weathered cookbooks lines the wall, their spines cracked and faded.
The boards beneath my feet creak in soft protest.
The kettle clicks. I pour the tea and pull out my notebook to start a list I should’ve made days ago:
Tomorrow, I’ll start with the bulbs. For now, I sip and let the quiet hold me.
After a moment, I fetch the record player from its box and set it on the sideboard. The needle catches. A low crackle fills the room, and the first few bars of music hums through the air. I close my eyes. It’s enough for tonight.
My phone buzzes on the bench.
JASPER: Be there tomorrow morning.
LUCAS: Great! Meet me at the bookstore.
He sends a thumbs-up.
I spot a bookmark wedged in the windowsill, ink bleached at the corners. It isn’t marking anything; it’s just waiting. Carol left things like that.
I didn’t get to say goodbye. Maybe this is it, a key on a ring and a room that still knows her. I don’t know about fate. But I believe in Carol.