Page 5 of Forget Me Not (The Shifters of Timberfall #1)

Syve

“Chai for Kai!” Aimi called out as Syve stepped into the coffee shop, the smell of espresso immediately permeating every pore of her body.

The inside of The Glass Half Full was not what you would expect when you heard Aimi owned it.

The contrast between her piercings and her bright wardrobe with the calm, simple atmosphere of her shop was shocking.

The front window, which took up the entirety of the southern facing storefront, let the sun in through sheer, soft green curtains for the entirety of the day.

One wall in the back of the shop was completely covered in shelves, supporting pots of varying sizes with enough plants to make any nursery jealous.

The remaining walls were a gentle beige, adorned with a few canvases of Erhard’s black-and-white photos.

The wood flooring was Aimi’s favorite bragging point.

It was made entirely of recycled hardwood she had collected herself, and she paid a handful of local boys in pizza to help her get the flooring down.

Afterward, she spent the rest of the weekend sanding and staining, until the dark walnut coloring stood out against the rest of the room.

She would puff up like a peacock every time someone asked why she had chosen such a dark floor, then excitedly tell them it was to mask any stains from spilled coffee and tea.

It was impossible to argue with that logic.

Syve waved at her friend as she made her way to her favorite seat—a fluffy loveseat tucked in the back corner, beneath a row of spider plants that hung just right to create a little canopy.

She always planned her lunch break to line up with the tail end of the afternoon rush.

Slipping down into the cushions of the old, sage-green sofa with whatever book she was currently reading while waiting for the crowd to clear had easily become the highlight of her days.

Fifteen minutes later, having finally made it through the long line of java aficionados, Aimi sat a mug on the coffee table next to Syve, then dropped into the seat beside her, kicking her feet up into Syve’s lap.

“I’m going to apply for the grant,” Syve announced as she absentmindedly retied the laces on Aimi’s pink, knee high Converse .

“For real? Babe! That’s incredible! I’m so glad!” Aimi squealed, swinging her freshly re-tied feet to the floor to grapple Syve into a hug. “Can I help with anything?”

“That’s actually what I was going to ask. I need to find that notebook, and I’m going to need backup if I go digging in that closet.” As the only spare closet in the entire residence, it had become a “catch-all” and was terrifyingly full—mostly of ghosts.

“I really don’t understand why you even bother asking, when you know the answer is, duh.” Aimi rolled her eyes playfully. Syve opened her mouth to respond when her phone started to vibrate across the table.

“Ugh,” she groaned, looking at the screen. “Gunther.”

“Let me guess—dinner? Again?” Aimi said, raising her brows.

“Mhhm, he’s grilling steaks this time.” Syve raised her brows with a smirk. “Because that’s exactly what I want.”

“Leave it to Gunther to cook steaks for a vegetarian.” Aimi sighed. “What excuse are you giving him this time?”

“I’m going to tell him I just started my period and can’t leave the house.”

“ Can’t ?!” Aimi howled, slapping her knee. “Shark week with a twist: when the blood runs, the great white gets kicked out of the water!”

Syve just smiled as she typed out her reply.

“You’re sure it’s under here?!” Aimi hollered from deep inside the closet. “There’s so much shit in here. What the hell!?”

Syve chuffed, still slowly digging through the box of fabric Aimi pulled out earlier.

While she wasn’t sure if she still wanted to touch the fabric she’d originally purchased, let alone use it, she hoped to cut costs by working with things she already had on hand.

That included the fabric from Bozeman. She set aside a few yards of a golden yellow plaid and at least a dozen yards in various shades of gray.

“I’m positive I threw it in there, but like…

I literally threw it. So, it’s probably going to be all the way in the back,” Syve called back.

She was grateful her friend was willing to dive through boxes for her.

Some of them were eighteen years old, left mostly untouched since her parents died when she was ten—their belongings, boxed up and stored away for the day when she was old enough to decide what to do with them, only seeing daylight when they were moved from one closet to the next.

The rest of the boxes belonged to Erhard.

“Oh! Wait! Hold on—I found something—shit,” Aimi cursed, and judging by the sound of cardboard slamming into the wall, she had tripped. “All the way in the back, like you said. I found this journal—fuck—on top of this…box?”

Aimi finally stepped back into view, her messy bun knocked loose and hanging limply off the side of her head.

She was carrying an old wooden chest with a dusty, leather-bound book sitting on top.

With an exaggerated groan, she heaved the box onto the table in front of Syve, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

“Jesus,” Syve coughed, reaching across the table to pick up the notebook and blowing dust from the cover. “Why did you bring out this thing?”

“Cuz it’s locked, and I want to open it,” Aimi said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Locked? I don’t remember anything being locked…

” Syve trailed off as she flipped open the journal, it was leather-bound and worn from years of use with the silhouette of a deer imprinted on the cover.

She’d been using this book for years to scrawl her notes and rushed sketches every time inspiration struck—except, she had not been using this book.

Syve stared at the first page in confusion, she had not been using this journal because this was not her handwriting and these were not her words.

“Syve? What’s wrong? Is it all there?” Aimi circled the table, carefully stepping around the mess on the floor until she was standing beside her friend, her voice full of concern. “Babe? ”

“It’s not mine? It’s the same journal, but it’s not?

” Syve flipped through a few more pages until her eyes caught a word that was familiar.

“Dearest Oisín ?” Her voice caught, and her body began to tremble.

She turned around, never taking her eyes off the book in her hands, and carefully slid onto the table.

Aimi did not hesitate before clambering up beside her.

“ Oisín ? Was that a family name? I thought you had made it up.” The severe confusion was written plainly on Aimi’s face as she tried to figure out why Noah’s middle name was written in this twenty-year-old book.

“Dearest Oisín ,“ Syve read aloud, her voice shaking. “I’ve been writing in these journals for as long as I can remember, never knowing who they were for—until now. The rest of my words will all be for you. I guess that is, if you ever want to read them. I’m probably putting the cart ahead of the horse again—your father and I only got the news this morning—”

Aimi gasped and Syve added, “I think…I think this was my mom’s?

I don’t understand. I don’t remember ever hearing the name Oisín before.

I found it by accident when I was Googling baby names and clicked on a wiki page by mistake—you know that part.

Oisín was the son of Syve in this old legend—I would remember if my mom had called me that, wouldn’t I? ”

Aimi just sighed, shrugged and snuggled close into her side. “Maybe when you saw it your subconscious remembered it? Maybe she only called you that when you were really little?”

“You don’t suppose this chest was Mom’s too then, do you?” Syve gestured to the locked box next to her. Now suddenly just as interested in opening it as her friend.

“If I say yes, does that mean you’ll let me at it?” She did little to conceal the excitement in her voice.

“Actually, MacGyver, before you get too wild and break your way in—I have this necklace upstairs, it used to be my mom’s, it’s an old skeleton key and the metal matches.”

“The metal…matches?” Aimi deadpanned, giving Syve a you’ve-absolutely-gone-and-lost-your-mind-now look.

“Oh, shut up! I mean the color and style of the key match the box so I don’t think you need to smash your way in like the Kool-aid man.” Syve ran up to her room, digging quickly through her jewelry box for the necklace. When she returned, slipping the key into the lock with ease, Aimi groaned.

“Dammit! I really wanted to test my lock picking skills! This feels too easy!”

Ignoring her, Syve gently lifted the lid, wincing as it creaked loudly.

Inside were easily two dozen tomes, all leather-bound with the same doe burnt into each cover.

Sighing, she pulled out a book at random.

A few seconds of flipping through the pages confirmed it was another diary, filled with her mother’s words .

“Why was that one left out? What do they say?” Aimi asked the room. “Are you going to read them?” This question was softly directed at Syve.

“I-I don’t know.” Syve inhaled deeply, placing the journals back inside and closing the lid, “But that’s tomorrow Syve’s problem. Today Syve still needs to find her own damn notebook.” She clapped her hands then turned to face Aimi.

“Back under the stairs I go,” Aimi groaned, hopping down from the table and trudging her way back to the closet.

Thirty minutes, ten more boxes, and three distractions later, Syve finally had her sketches in hand.

The gentle whisper of the wind through the trees once again lulled her into a daze as she rested against the headstone, absentmindedly running her nose along the inscription.

Syve exhaled deeply, then stood, shaking off the snow that had stuck to her before slowly beginning the trek back to the cemetery gates.

The snow was deeper tonight, slowing her steps.

A shift in the wind tickled the hairs along her spine and she paused, tilting her head when a familiar scent wafted past her. Wax smoke, like a freshly snuffed candle. It did not belong .

A niggling feeling in the back of her mind urged her to look away from the main gate, and back toward the farthest corner of the graveyard. Her eyes instantly locked onto the mausoleum, its half open door, and the large gray wolf standing unnaturally still in the doorway, bright eyes unblinking.

After what felt like hours—but couldn’t have been more than seconds—Syve turned back to the gate.

If this were reality, she might have been terrified. But it was only a dream. And there was nothing an overgrown dog could do to her mind that could possibly hurt it any more than it already was.