CHAPTER TWELVE ~ ABBY ~ FOURTEEN YEARS AGO
It’s our second last full day in Edinburgh, and I’m wandering on my own.
Fog blankets the city, muffling the sounds of people and traffic.
When I was little, my grandma would stand at the window whenever it was foggy, her expression full of a longing I didn’t understand, and her tone wistful as she told me how the haar always reminded her of home.
I understand that longing better now.
I was only eleven when she died, and although I enjoyed hearing her talk about Scotland, I didn’t fully grasp what it meant that she came from somewhere far away and had an accent I rarely heard outside of the occasional TV show.
It never occurred to me to ask questions about Scotland, her childhood, if she ever regretted leaving, or if she wished she could go back.
I’d give anything to ask her all those things now, and tell her just how deeply I’ve fallen in love with her homeland.
The drone of bagpipes carries on the air, cutting through the almost eerie silence.
I’ve gotten a bit turned around, but I’m not worried.
Something about the tall grey buildings that loom on either side of me, paired with the cobblestones beneath my feet, is comforting.
If it weren’t for the vehicles parked on the street, I could almost imagine I’ve stepped back in time.
An image of my grandma’s lined face and bright blue eyes flashes through my mind as the faint strains of the bagpipe reach me, and I recognize the song: “Amazing Grace”.
It was one of her favourites. This year marks the tenth anniversary of her death; I’ve now lived almost as long without her as I did with her.
Being in Scotland has made me feel closer to her, and I think it’s part of why I’m struggling with the idea of leaving.
I’ve hardly had a moment to myself since we arrived, which I haven’t minded—I’ve enjoyed every second with my friends, and have made memories that will last a lifetime—but as our time in Scotland draws to a close, I find myself experiencing a lot of Big Feelings.
Earlier today, those feelings included a desire to venture out on my own after we all had lunch in one of our favourite pubs.
“Are you okay?” Drew had asked quietly as we stood outside the pub and stared at the grey sky.
“You’ve been quiet today. I know you said you wanted to wander on your own for a bit, but I can come with you if you want company.
Or Brodie and I can change our plans for tonight, and we could have a girls’ night instead. ”
This morning over breakfast, Brodie announced he’d like to take Drew on a romantic date tonight after Fern casually mentioned she was having dinner with the guy she met at a coffee shop yesterday.
Graeme had turned to me and said, “That leaves you and me, Pumpkin Spice. Will you be my date for the evening?”
We’ve been on plenty of friend dates over the years, but something has been shifting between us since that day after our hike up Arthur’s Seat.
I’ve caught him watching me several times with a pensive expression, and he’s been touching me far less than usual.
He also hasn’t been as chatty as he normally is.
When I asked him yesterday if everything was okay, he smiled and said, “Everything’s grand, Spicy.
” Him asking me on a date for tonight made me think I must have been reading too much into his recent behaviour.
I’d assured Drew I was fine on my own and wanted everyone to stick to their plans for the evening.
It felt strange being out in the city on my own—hell, it felt strange being on my own, period—but I quickly got swept up in exploring and taking pictures.
The pub we ate lunch at was close to The Meadows, so after exploring a couple of streets I was unfamiliar with, I wandered in the park, admiring the cherry blossoms. We’d already been there a few times and I had dozens of pictures of the trees, but I couldn’t get enough of them.
The others never make me feel rushed when I’m in photographer mode, but there are times when I feel bad for taking so long, so it was nice to go at my own pace.
The sun was still shining at that point, so I sat on a bench, unable to contain my grin as soft pink blossoms fluttered around me and accumulated at my feet and in my upturned palms. I watched a group of kids playing rugby, and greeted several enthusiastic dogs who came my way for attention.
I had no destination in mind when I set off from The Meadows.
Despite the noticeable drop in temperature and the creeping fog, I veered down side streets, checked out a few small shops, and bought myself a couple of Empire biscuits at a bakery.
Traffic noise picks up now as I round a corner.
Recognition hits me when I spy the bronze statue of Greyfriars Bobby up ahead.
The famous Skye Terrier, who reportedly remained by his owner’s grave for fourteen years until his own death, sits across from the entrance to Greyfriars Kirkyard.
We toured the kirk and kirkyard—or church and graveyard—on our first day here, and we’ve ended up there a couple of times since.
Something about this place keeps calling me back.
Apparently, it’s calling me again because I find myself passing through the now-familiar wrought-iron gates.
A shiver skitters up my spine as I stroll up the first footpath.
The fog is still thick, and it clings to the graves, nearly obscuring the nearby cherry blossom trees.
During the guided tour we did last week, I was pleased to see how the others hung on the guide’s every word just as much as I did.
The graveyard dates back to the late sixteenth century, and is not only one of the most famous in the world, it’s also supposedly one of the most haunted.
Drew had shuddered dramatically at my side as the guide regaled us with tales of ghosts and poltergeists, and told us that many visitors report unexplained scratches and bruises after visiting certain sections of the graveyard.
We were particularly creeped out by the graves with cages over them, and were both fascinated and horrified to learn about the history of grave robbing in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century by so-called ‘resurrection men’ who would dig up graves and sell the corpses to anatomists who were in need of fresh cadavers for studying.
I pause by an enormous monument that’s been discoloured by time and the elements.
Another shiver rolls through me as I take a picture of the skull and crossbones carved into the stone.
A pair of crows call to each other overhead, and I can’t help but smile to myself as I think about how they add to the creepy ambience.
I scroll through the last few shots I took on my camera, unsure whether or not I hope to see something on the screen that I didn’t catch with my naked eye.
I’ve heard of people capturing strange shadows and ghostly spectres on film, and if it was ever going to happen for me, I imagine this would be the place.
The path I’m on is deserted and the graveyard is quiet, but something makes me lift my head. Goosebumps race across my skin, and I get the strange sensation I’m being watched. I’ve had that same feeling during every other visit to Greyfriars.
My heart leaps into my throat as a shadow shifts up ahead.
I try to move, but my feet are rooted to the ground.
A choked laugh escapes me when the shape takes form, and Graeme emerges from the fog like some sort of Gothic romance hero.
The second he sees me, his eyes light up, and a smile overtakes his face.
“There you are,” he says as he approaches.
“Sorry if I startled you. I was walking along Candlemaker Row, and something compelled me to turn into the kirkyard.” He stops in front of me, hooking his fingers gently into the cashmere shawl I’m using as a scarf.
“Not sure I’ll ever get over seeing you in my family tartan. ”
He’s wearing a similar scarf under his dark peacoat.
His hair is tousled, and his cheeks are ruddy from the nip in the air.
He’s so beautiful it stirs up the sense of longing I felt earlier.
I’ve tried to convince myself the ache is tied to the idea of leaving Scotland the day after tomorrow, but there’s no denying it’s more than that.
I can’t stand the thought of leaving Graeme.
Of being thousands of kilometres and an entire ocean away from him.
I take a step back. His hands fall from my scarf and drop to his sides.
Confusion flits over his face until I raise my camera and aim it at him.
His smile returns, although this time it’s soft and affectionate, and I swear it holds a bit of the yearning that’s swelling inside me.
I want to remember him in this moment, my handsome Gothic hero surrounded by fog in a city I’ve fallen in love with.
“What do you feel like doing tonight?” he asks after I’ve lowered my camera. “If you want more time on your own, we can meet up later.”
“No, I think you found me for a reason,” I say.
He hums in agreement, shifting to look over his shoulder, and murmuring something that sounds like, “I do too.” He shoves his hands in his pockets as he turns back to me. “Feels like rain. Want to get inside somewhere warm?”
“Good ide—” The words turn into an indignant gasp as the sky opens and rain pelts down, landing like icy needles on my face. Graeme helps me put my camera away, then grabs my hand and pulls me toward the nearest tree for shelter.
“Great day to decide not to wear my mac,” he says wryly, referring to the waterproof jacket he usually wears.