Chapter 28
Wren
When I had first discovered Everston, it wasn’t really on purpose.
I’d been searching for hours, my GPS stubbornly out of range.
The map on my phone was little more than a pixelated guess, the roads seemed endless and tangled, leading me to dead ends both literal and metaphorical.
Each turn that didn’t lead me to Everston only amplified the gnawing doubt: why was I even trying to find this place?
On all the other stops on my journey, each marked by Lucy’s coasters, I had found no trace of her.
Did I really think Everston would be any different?
I was chasing a ghost. Just as I was ready to turn back, something caught my eye—a bird perched on a weathered sign by the side of the road.
At first, I thought it was a wren. Lucy, of course, loved wrens, and in excitement to feel closer to her, I’d pulled over.
But as I stepped closer, I realized it wasn’t a wren at all.
It was a bluebird, its plump body fluffed against the breeze, perched delicately on a sign that pointed toward Everston.
I stood there, staring at it, as if the bird were daring me to follow.
So, I did. I veered off the highway, down that long, winding road that hugged the mountain, not knowing that this place, this tiny dot on a map, would change my life forever.
Now I was back in New York, and everything felt different.
I’d left Everston the same way I’d left New York—in a hurry, without a plan, and in a desperate attempt to just escape.
Half my things were still at Gill’s, and I’d abandoned my car in the long-term parking lot at the Denver airport.
When I landed and took in the city, it hit me like an old, familiar song.
The jagged high-rises pierced the skyline, their windows glittering, a stark contrast to the sloping mountains I had grown used to in Everston.
The air carried its own signature—warm pretzels and roasted chestnuts from the corner carts mixed with the faint metallic tang of subway tracks, the faintest trace of hot asphalt lingering.
The streets buzzed with energy, a constant hum of people moving, heels clicking against pavement, snippets of conversations overlapping in countless languages, taxis honking in frustration, and the deep rumble of delivery trucks moving through it all.
This was the New York I knew. The pulse of a city I once called home.
But how could I still call it home when I had undoubtedly left my heart somewhere else?
It felt like nothing fit anymore. New York demanded something from you.
It always had—a certain grit, the courage to carve out your own space in the middle of chaos.
I needed something, anything, that could make me feel as though I belonged, so I jumped in a cab, and before I knew it I found myself standing outside my parents’ house.
There was something in the peeling paint on the doorframe, and the sound of the neighborhood kids playing kickball in the street, that wrapped around me like an old, frayed sweater.
When my mother opened the door, her face froze for a moment, as if her mind couldn’t quite process what her eyes were seeing.
Then her expression softened, her surprise melting into a flood of overwhelming relief.
She didn’t say a word, just pulled me into her arms. It was the kind of hug that undid me completely.
I let myself crumble in her embrace, collapsing into her.
A moment later, my father appeared in the hallway, his footsteps slowing as he registered the sight of me.
His brow furrowed in disbelief before his lips parted in an almost inaudible exhale.
Without hesitation, he joined us, wrapping his arms around both of us.
I felt myself expel the weight of everything that had happened these last few months as I buried my face against them, and sobbed into their arms.
When I opened my eyes, soft morning light seeped through the linen curtains of my parents’ guest room.
Dust motes floated lazily in a haze, suspending the stillness.
My phone sat untouched on the nightstand, still powered off—a small barrier I had chosen for my own self-preservation.
I rose slowly, dressing and making my way downstairs.
Mom was nestled in her favorite armchair.
A steaming cup of tea rested on the side table, its gentle curls of vapor drifting upward.
Her face was hidden behind the pages of a well-worn book, her brow lightly furrowed in focus.
She glanced up at the sound of my footsteps entering the living room, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took me in.
“Are those paint marks on your overalls?” she asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I looked down, noting the splashes and flecks of color decorating the fabric from my thighs to the chest pocket. “Yes,” I said simply.
Moving to the couch opposite her, I sank into the cushions and dragged one of the crocheted pillows onto my lap, hugging it tightly.
“So,” she said, “were you a painter these past months?”
I smiled, thinking of Gill and all those hours spent sanding furniture, finding new railings, gardening, and repairing the gutters. “Not quite,” I replied. “I was helping a friend renovate their house.”
“Oh,” she replied, arching an eyebrow. “Finished?”
I scrunched my nose, thinking of those opossums. “Not quite,” I admitted.
“I suppose you might want to get back to it then,” she said, delicately.
I sighed, leaning back into the couch. “I can’t go back, Mom,” I said.
“I see,” she said softly. “What about your place?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to go there either.”
She paused for a moment, before setting down her book and moving to sit beside me on the couch, wrapping her arms around me.
“We loved Lucy,” she whispered. “We loved you and Lucy. And Lucy loved you. Nothing—not even death—will ever change that. But, sweetheart, it’s because of how much Lucy loved you that I know she wouldn’t want you to keep running. ”
The truth of those words settled deep in my chest, and I felt the sadness rising, spreading like wildfire through my veins and engulfing my body.
Lucy wouldn’t want me to keep running.
The street was alive with the quiet hum of a New York morning.
A cyclist zipped past, nearly clipping my shoulder as I stepped off the curb.
On the corner, the bodega was already bustling.
Its faded awning casting a shadow over buckets of fresh flowers spilling onto the sidewalk.
The scent of coffee and toasted bagels drifted from the door.
A group of teenagers sat on a stoop across the street, talking and laughing with each other.
My parents had taken care of my brownstone while I had disappeared into Everston.
Despite my months and months of mostly silence, they hadn’t abandoned it like I had.
Standing on the sidewalk, I noticed small touches that weren’t mine: a neatly arranged planter overflowing with ivy by the front steps, and a little owl statue perched by the door—no doubt my father’s attempt at keeping rats away.
The sight reminded me of the garden statues I had peppered Gill’s front garden with, and the quirky clay creatures that sat atop the front desk at the library.
I pushed the thought away as I fumbled for my keys.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lemon.
It was like stepping into a time capsule.
The world had continued moving, but inside these walls, time had stood still.
Dust clung to the sleek lines of midcentury furniture, and the high ceilings echoed my hesitant footsteps.
I moved from room to room, drinking it in.
I had taken down almost every photograph, the memories too painful, but there were still touches of a life once shared: our collection of mismatched mugs, a book left open on the coffee table, and some of Lucy’s favorite artworks still hung on the walls.
In the bedroom, a pale light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows on the hardwood floor.
The space felt colder than I remembered, the emptiness magnified.
Shivering, I crossed to the wardrobe to fetch a sweater.
As I pulled open the drawer, my fingers brushed against something soft.
I lifted it: a red scarf, slipping through my fingers.
It had been Lucy’s. I brought it to my face, inhaling deeply.
The faint scent of her perfume still lingered, and it filled my senses.
Grief has a way of condensing time, collapsing the years into a single breath.
“What do I do, Lucy?” I whispered to the empty room.
Her presence was sudden and quiet, like a whisper of wind through an open window. She was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, as clear as ever.
“You’re here,” I said, drawing a breath.
“I am.” She smiled.
I lowered myself onto the bed beside her, the ache in my heart easing, if only slightly. “I think I have ruined everything,” I murmured. “Everston, Olivia, my new friends…”
Lucy tilted her head, her eyes kind. “Things that are meant to be have a habit of working out.”
“How so?”
“You were always supposed to find Everston,” she replied, “but not to find me. To find Olivia.”
“A second chance?”
“Yes.”
I looked down at my hands, brushing over where my engagement ring once lived on my finger. The indentation had long since gone. “It still feels strange sometimes,” I said. “To let myself feel happy without you.”
“Wren,” Lucy’s voice broke through my thoughts, softer than before. “Grief and happiness can live together. You’ve learned that. Moving forward doesn’t mean leaving me behind. I’ll always be with you.”
I studied her closely; the edges of her figure seemed to blur into the background, like an old photograph fading in the sun.