Page 1 of Forget Me Not (The Shifters of Timberfall #1)
Syve
Fluffy, white flakes fell atop the nearby headstones, casting an ethereal glow around her as she peered up into the stony face of an angel. Peace. It was a symbol meant to bring peace to visitors, but peace was the last thing Syve felt.
Darkness engulfed the statue, much like a dust cloth being pulled over a piece of furniture in an empty home.
The waning moon had disappeared behind the midnight clouds, and she closed her eyes for a moment before turning to take the thirteen steps from the marble’s skirted base to the cold, packed earth where her heart now lay six feet below.
Twelve. Her hot breath sent spirals of steam to dance before her in the crisp December air .
Eight. Soft snow crunched beneath her delicate hooves, enunciating each step.
Two.
One.
As the moon reemerged into the night sky, a pillar of light appeared, faintly illuminating the stone before her.
With her heart aching, she curled her body down onto the frozen ground to lean against the granite.
Blearily, her eyes traced the lettering carved deep into the stone.
Then, tipping her head back, she unleashed a mournful cry to the heavens.
At twenty-nine years old, Syve was no stranger to nightmares. She had suffered from night terrors as a small girl, but they paled in comparison to the images that recently began to plague her every night.
It had been a little over a week, the same dream playing out in her mind—it would start with her turning down the street to find her loft shrouded in blue and red lights and would end with her plodding across the cemetery to lay across her young son’s grave.
A constant reminder of her sweet little boy and the family she lost far too soon.
Every morning, she woke with her heart in pieces, all too aware of the silence that now accompanied her empty home.
Whoever said time heals all wounds, was a liar .
A somber cello prelude pulled Syve from her reverie, her arm stretched across her husband’s empty side of the bed. Perhaps one day she would stop reaching for him when she woke, bereft with grief over the loss of their son, just to be reminded he too had been lost on that same, God-forsaken night.
Forcing her feet to the floor, she silenced the alarm and looked over to the crib pushed against the opposite wall—little blankets and tiny clothes still draped over its edge.
Maybe, one day, she would be strong enough to pack them away.
Tearing her eyes from the soft linens, she padded across the hall to the bathroom, squinting as the fluorescent lights flickered to life.
Syve stared at the woman in the large mirror above the vanity.
Once, bright hazel eyes peeked through thick lashes and high cheekbones.
Now, all that remained were dull, unseeing eyes set in sunken sockets, rimmed with dark skin from months of sleepless nights.
Her auburn hair was a tangled mess on top of her head, with more than half having fallen loose from the messy bun she had gone to sleep with, leaving staticky strands sticking out this way and that.
Grimacing, she fought to free the scrunchie, tossing it toward the sink and not bothering to correct it when it landed short on the tile and slid beneath the counter.
Instead, she reached into the shower to turn the water on as hot as she knew she could without risk of blistering her skin.
One last glance at the clock above the door assured her she had just enough time to attempt to burn off her sorrow before she would need to go downstairs and pretend to work—not that a heat rash ever made the urge to crawl out of her miserable, surviving skin any less.
Thirty minutes later, chased out by the water going cold, Syve found herself standing in the middle of her closet, one side full of men’s flannel, the other housing her chaotic mix of thrifted and homemade clothes. Her eyes lingered on the former—another task for a stronger day.
With a sigh, she retreated back, leaving the door to her tomb of memories open.
She reached into the basket at the foot of the bed and pulled out a wrinkled forest green long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans.
Even though she owned enough clothes to go a month or more without ever having to wash a load of laundry, she had resorted to living out of a basket and wearing the same few outfits every week.
The tile under her was cold as she ambled across the small house into the dark kitchen, guided by the chirping of the old coffee pot and the heady aroma emanating from it—it would likely require at least the entire carafe for her to get through the day.
The cabinet door squeaked open as she dug out her favorite mug, one which required two hands to hold and read—‘Sewing all day, but first coffee’—written in big, bold script twisted around it.
She yawned and poured a full cup, forgoing cream because that took more effort than she had to give, then left the kitchen .
That morning, she truly did have an order to fill—Dorothea needed her cooking apron repaired again.
The sweet old lady had just turned eighty-three, but that did not stop her from spending every waking minute in her kitchen.
At least once a month, she brought the apron in with a broken strap or a hole in one of the pockets.
Syve asked her once, years ago, if she would rather have a replacement.
Dorothea had refused, saying it was a gift from her husband for their 50th anniversary.
At the time Syve had not understood why that had made a simple smock so special, but now…
Stepping around Erhard’s boots, which lay dust-covered in the middle of the floor where he had last left them, Syve slipped into her own, not bothering with the laces.
She made her way down the narrow stairs from her loft to the large, open room below that made up her storefront.
According to her phone, she still had fifteen minutes before she needed to turn on any lights and unlock the door, so she dragged her feet over to the front counter, woke her tablet, and checked for any new work requests.
Being a seamstress was not what she had dreamt of doing when she was a child, but after years of fixing her own things and those of literally everyone around her, it just made sense to make a career of it.
First it was just hemming and patching holes, but eventually she ended up doing more difficult repairs and even creating a few things of her own.
Next thing she knew, she was not only enjoying it, but dreaming about what she could make next.
Two years into her bachelor’s degree, she met a handsome German exchange student at a house party.
They locked eyes from opposing sides of a beer pong table and never looked away.
The energy between the two of them was palpable.
One date became two, then three, which then became a ring while they both wore graduation gowns.
After permanently relocating to the states for her, Erhard put his double major to work.
He secured a job in Montana working as a cartographer, mapping the National Parks, and started his own photography business on the side.
When the newlyweds found a loft tucked above a little storefront in the quiet town of Timberfall, Erhard convinced Syve to use her business degree to open her own seamstress shop.
Within three years, Sew It Seams was more than just keeping itself afloat; Gehring Photography was listed and known as the ninth-best photography business in the state; and ‘E.G.’ was listed in the fine print on the back of every atlas you could pick up at the travel center.
Now, at seven years old, Sew It Seams was barely being held aloft by a life insurance payout—and Gehring Photography? All that remained of it was a few news clippings, a dusty crate of neglected cameras in the closet, and the framed prints surrounding her now.
Out of habit, Syve ran her fingers over the inked ring on her left hand while she surveyed her shop.
Each wall of her little shop was painted a different color: mint green, periwinkle, robin’s egg blue, and a soft salmon.
Adorning all four walls were nine of Erhard’s favorite photos—blown up and framed, hung all around with price tags dangling from the bottom in hopes that someone who wandered in would be interested in buying—not that she could bring herself to let them go now, regardless.
A sharp knock tore Syve from her thoughts, pulling her attention to a man at the front door.
“Morning, Doll!” the man called, his voice muffled through the glass. “Mind getting the door?” He punctuated his question by holding up a drink carrier with one hand and a paper bag in the other.
“Gunther,” Syve grumbled to herself, dragging her hand down her face.
Gunther was her late husband’s cousin, and after Erhard had passed, it was like he had taken it upon himself to step in and keep an eye on her—family duty, or whatever.
At least, that’s what he called it when he offered her half of his bed—an offer she swiftly rejected every month when he asked.
Shoving the glass with her shoulder to engage the old latch, Syve unlocked the door and swung it open. She made a mental note to add the wonky door to the steadily growing list of things that needed to be fixed—once she found someone handy who came with their own tools.
“Shit, it’s cold in here! You got that heater off again?
!” Gunther groaned, faking a shiver as he ducked his way through the door.
Erhard, at six foot five, had been the only person in town who could look Gunther straight in the eye.
After half-heartedly stomping the snow off his boots, he made his way over to the counter to set down his loot.
“I know you probably made coffee upstairs,” he added, gesturing to the back of the shop before pulling a cup from the carrier.
“But I know you can’t say no to a cup from Aim’s. ”
Syve forced a smile as she took the cup from him, and watched as he ruffled the snow from his short blonde hair, hair the same cut and color as his cousin's used to be.
She did not bother to answer any of his questions, knowing they were all rhetorical.
She also did not bother to correct him for the thousandth time that Aimi hated that nickname, as he clearly never listened anyway.
Even though he was dancing on a fine line of being annoying with his constant presence, she could not argue that he was right about the heavenly bean-water.
“Listen, Hardy would have my hide if he knew I was letting you freeze yours off in here,” Gunther scolded for the thousandth time as he fumbled with the thermostat.
“I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you that sixty-eight degrees is too damn cold for winter.
Jesus, Syve, it’s December!” Syve rolled her eyes behind his back as he cranked the heat up to his usual seventy-five.
She would just wait ten minutes after he left, to make sure he wasn’t coming back, and then shut it off again.
Fighting with him was not a hill she had the energy to die on .
“Gunther, you know I appreciate the coffee and—” she tipped her cup pointedly at the bag on the counter. “Donuts?” She paused long enough for him to wink a green eye back in response. “You really don’t have to keep stopping in to check on me.”
“It’s my job to check on you, and I’ll continue to do so until one of us gets to meet that damn husband of yours again,” he growled, turning toward the door.
“Now, heat stays up. And Syve,” he said over his shoulder, “you look like shit. Get some more sleep, yeah?” The door slammed shut behind him as he trudged off into the snow.
“Fucker,” Syve muttered into her cup before taking a long pull of her latte, moaning as she swallowed.
No one on this planet could make a cup of coffee like Aimi, and Syve also knew that the only reason her drink was exactly how she liked it was because of her best friend.
Setting the drink on the counter, she pulled out her phone and opened the messages.
Syve:
This tastes EXTRA caffeinated.
Aimi:
You bet your ass
You’re welcome
Syve:
How many shots are in this?
Aimi:
Yes
Like I said, you’re welcome
Tell me you were going to handle Gunther’s grumpy ass with anything less than a straight fucking espresso, and I’ll call you a liar.
75 degrees?
Syve:
75 degrees.
Aimi:
EW. Tell me all about it tonight?
You’re not backing out of girl’s night
I already told Cam to ignore any messages from you
So don’t even think of trying to cancel
Again
Syve:
OMG I canceled ONE TIME and it was for WORK!
Aimi:
Excuses
Syve:
I’m not canceling.
Aimi:
You’re right, because we’re showing up regardless
See you at 6 3
Syve huffed in amusement, setting her phone down to open the bag on the counter, noting once again, only raspberry jelly donuts inside.
There were only so many times she could remind the man that she was, in fact, allergic to raspberries.
She shook her head, shoving the bag to the side.
At least she could give them to Cam to take home to her kids so they would not go to waste.