Chapter 6
Chapter six
Just up the narrow stairwell a new chapter is waiting for me, and I have no choice but to be ready to face it.
Standing in front of the door, I hesitate before reaching for the handle.
It is that same familiar cold. The key catches in the lock, just as it always has.
I lean into it with my shoulder and it pops open.
I almost fall whilst juggling a duffel bag, a half-eaten muffin, and a bottle of “emergency wine” Tess insisted I bring.
The apartment above Brew my candles remained unlit, and my dreams were made smaller, less disruptive.
I set the bottle of wine on the bench, the glass clinking softly against the wood.
When I open the cabinet, my little stack of bookish mugs greets me, tucked away, exactly where I left them.
The one that reads “Sorry, I’m all booked up,” hides behind a bag of stale tea.
I pull it out and run my fingers over the worn ceramic.
There are cobwebs in the corners, still I smile.
I pour a glass of the red and stand in the centre of the room like it might recognise me. Or maybe I’m finally recognising myself.
‘Hi,’ I whisper to the stillness. ‘I’m home.’ And for the first time in a long time, I mean it.
I set the glass down and shrug off my coat, folding it over the arm of the couch. Unzipping my suitcases, I begin pulling out pieces of myself. My journal, the candle, a well-loved copy of The Year Before You, and I place them on the shelf where they belong.
Tucked between the pages of my journal is the photo Carol took the night of my launch at Turn the Page. Her mostly grey hair is in its usual loose bun, a tiny book pin on her collar. I cross the room and slide it into the empty frame waiting on the bookshelf.
I move onto the boxes with my books—the ones I left behind—they greet me like old friends.
Some with cracked spines, others still pristine.
I slide one into my palm and trace the edge of the spine as if it were unlocking the memory of the story inside.
I spend the next hour unpacking. I move slowly, one drawer at a time.
I light the candle, the one I couldn’t bear to light in his house. The scent of sandalwood and fig, blooms through the room bringing with it a sense of calm. Candles have always had that effect on me.
There are dust bunnies in the corner and a wonky light switch in the hall, but none of it feels broken just lived in.
Outside, the sound of footsteps floats up the hallway. I go to the door expecting to see Tess and Marley, but I find Nettie; holding a basket of what looks to be bread, milk, and other essentials.
Almost out of breath, she huffs, ‘Welcome Lils, thought you’d need some stuff to get started.’
Smiling, I gesture for her to come in. ‘Thank you, this is perfect.’
She nods. ‘Sorry, but I hate those wretched stairs.’
‘Take a seat. Want some water or wine?’
‘No thanks, love. I just wanted to check in and see how you were feeling.’
‘Better, being back here. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it, the place has always felt like yours,’ she adds. Taking a deep breath, she opens her mouth as if to speak but closes it just as quickly. There is a look on her face I can’t quite place. Concern?
‘Everything okay Nettie?’
She nods. ‘I meant to tell you this when we spoke last night, but I couldn’t find the words.’
Panic spreads over me, as tears well in her eyes. I have never seen this woman cry. ‘Nettie, what is it? What’s wrong?’
‘She’s gone Lils. Carol passed away.’ Her tears fall, as if now the words were out, there was nothing to keep them in. ‘It wasn’t long after the book event. She had cancer love.’
‘She what? What do you mean? I just saw her. I just received a parcel from her.’ I walk over to the photo and show her, as if that would take the words back.
‘I’m sorry darlin.’ Carol did believe this town had magic to it. That stories always found their way home, just like people. Maybe the package wasn’t late. Maybe it arrived exactly when you needed it.’
Unable to speak, I just nod into the silence. She gives me a hug before turning to leave. ‘I’ll see you when you’re ready to come back to work. No rush.’
‘Okay, thanks Nettie.’
When the door clicks shut, I wander to the couch and sit, the cushions dipping. For a moment I wait to feel something… sadness, anger, anything with edges. What comes is wider.
Carol was the first person I told I was writing a book.
She always encouraged me to keep going when the chapters got hard.
The bookstore became a place I could breathe inside, just four walls where my thoughts weren’t too loud and my dreams didn’t feel ridiculous.
She’d always keep a stack of my favourite pens under the counter in case I lost or forgot mine.
When I brought in messy drafts, she’d read them with the same care that she gave to customers choosing books, as if my words were already worth something.
She and Nettie are… were the closest thing I’ve had to anchors.
Just women who saw me, for me. If Nettie is home—the steady, feed-you, sit-down-and-drink-your-tea love; then Carol is the quiet corner of the shop where the light hits just right, the safe place you find by accident and then keep on purpose.
The ache spreads, slow and certain. I picture her hand on a book spine, that small smile when she’d say, “This one has you in it.” I didn’t understand then how someone could choose to see you that clearly and simply call it kindness.
I press my palms to my eyes until stars bloom. The package on the table looks different now—not late, not early, right on time.
I draw a breath that doesn’t quite make it to the bottom of my lungs. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper to the empty room, and hope the walls carry it to wherever she is.
A knock sounds at the door.
‘Open up, emotional goblin. We brought carbs and questionable advice,’ Marley calls through the wood.
I smile. ‘Coming.’
Marley sweeps in first, holding a paper bag from the café. ‘Still smells like coffee and existential dread. Perfect.’
Tess follows, trailing her fingers along the bench. ‘Back where you finally belong.’
‘I missed it,’ I say softly.
Marley hooks me into a one-armed hug. ‘And it missed you. Your plant looks like it’s been writing breakup poetry.’
Tess lifts an eyebrow. ‘You look good.’
‘I feel good. Mostly.’ I hesitate, fingers brushing the stem of my wine glass. ‘Carol passed away not long after my event.’
Both girls still.
Marley blinks first. ‘Wait, what?’
‘Nettie told me just now. Said she didn’t want a fuss.’
Tess reaches across the cushions and squeezes my knee. ‘Oh, Lilah.’
I nod, blinking fast. ‘She sent me something before she died. A package with the photo she took of us just before my Lola debut.’
Marley follows my gaze and reaches for the photo I framed earlier. ‘She’d be so proud of you for coming back here and starting over.’
‘She always said stories find their way home,’ I whisper. ‘Maybe I needed to remember that.’
‘You do,’ Marley declares, tossing me a bundle of clean clothes. ‘Now go shower so we can slap overpriced skincare on your face and emotionally cleanse your aura.’
Ten minutes later, I step out warm and clean, wrapped in my comfiest sweater. We sit cross-legged on the floor, pastries, and coffee between us. The room smells like sugar and soap.
‘You’ve always wanted to belong somewhere.’ Marley passes me a cinnamon scroll. ‘Maybe it was this all along.’
I look around at the uneven walls, and the light that still flickers even after you fix it twice. ‘Yeah,’ I whisper. ‘Maybe it is.’
‘Should we take her?’ Marley nudges Tess with a conspiratorial grin.
‘Take me where?’
Tess is already reaching for her scarf. ‘You’ll want your coat.’
I blink. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The Wishing Tree,’ Marley expresses, like that explains everything. ‘It’s a full moon.’
I huff a laugh. ‘You mean the old legend about sticking notes in a tree?’
Not that old. I’ve already been and tied my fear to a low branch, but I don’t say that. If I admit it, I’ll have to explain the why, and I’m not ready to hear it out loud.
Wattlewood Ridge was built where the old forest never quite stopped listening.
That’s what people say. The magic doesn’t shout; it settles.
It shows up in small, ordinary places: the chalk wishes outside that strangers add to and somehow answer; the bench by the bookstore where memories sit differently if you’re ready to remember; and the Wishing Tree: its branches stitched with ribbons and folded notes.
Three places. Three stories the town still believes.
The air has cooled, crisp in that way it gets after something heavy lifts. I hesitate, then reach for my coat, pretending this is my first time. ‘Alright,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Let’s go make a myth out of my emotional spiral.’
The path curves past the gallery, through a cluster of eucalyptus and banksia, before opening into a clearing washed in moonlight. The Wishing Tree stands in the centre, ribbons swaying. Its leaves are deep green on top but flash rust-gold underneath when the wind turns.
It feels right that something here holds more than one truth.
‘It looks like something out of a dream,’ I murmur.
Marley presses a hand to her heart. ‘Right?’
A small tin sits at the base of the trunk, its lid propped open to reveal scraps of paper, a few coloured ribbons, and stubby pencils dulled from use.
Tess kneels and takes one, offering the rest to us. ‘Don’t think too hard. Write what you need to let go, or what you hope is waiting.’
I crouch beside her, my knees sinking into the cool grass. My fingers tremble as I write: Give me a life that doesn’t ask me to be smaller.
I fold the paper, thread it through a length of faded pink ribbon, and tie it to a low branch. As I straighten, my eyes catch on a ribbon higher up, a strip of linen blue, frayed at the end. My stomach flips. It’s mine. The one I tied here two nights ago when no one was watching.
I look away quickly, hoping neither of them noticed.
Nothing magical happens. No glowing light, no whisper through the branches. Just the three of us under the moon, our breaths rising and falling with the quiet rhythm of the night. Still, something shifts inside me, small and certain, like the tree has heard enough.
Tess and Marley don’t ask what I wrote. They don’t need to. We turn back towards town, gravel crunching beneath our shoes. The ribbons rustle behind us, a hundred wishes tangled together, holding steady in the dark.
Journal Entry - Wednesday, 6th of August
Tonight, I’m sleeping above the café again. My old room smells faintly of coffee and cinnamon, and the bed is lumpy in the same spots it always is.
I unpacked my books first.
Books.
It feels like if I put them on the shelf, they’ll anchor me here.
There’s quiet in the walls. Not silence like Justin’s house, cold and hollow, but quiet that feels like it’s letting me breathe again.
I don’t know what comes next. Maybe I don’t need to know yet.
xx