Page 2 of Of Heather and Thistle

H eather Mackenzie Campbell had spent her entire life surrounded by silence, but none as deafening as the stillness that filled her father’s empty house.

She lingered in the middle of the living room, staring at the faded floral wallpaper and sagging furniture, barely aware of the scuff of wheels against the floor behind her. The air smelled of stale beer and dust. But beneath it lingered something colder—sterile. Final.

A murmur of voices. The clipped tones of professionals. The metallic rattle of a stretcher passing through the doorway.

And then, with a quiet click, the door shut.

* * *

His funeral was small. A mercy, really.

Charles Campbell wasn’t the kind of man people mourned.

He had lived hard, drank harder, and left little more than a trail of unpaid bills and broken promises.

Heather had been the dutiful daughter, seeing him through his final days despite everything.

And now, at twenty-three, she found herself utterly alone.

She stood apart from the handful of attendees clustered near the gravesite.

Her black dress and wool peacoat hugged her frame as the wind tangled her red curls, whipping them against her pale skin in unruly waves.

The minister’s voice droned on, solemn and steady, but the words barely reached her.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the casket—a plain pine box that summed up her father’s existence.

No flourish. No legacy. Just a hollow vessel lowered into the earth.

A few neighbors had shown up out of obligation rather than grief.

Mrs. Dempsey, who lived two doors down, dabbled in casseroles and gossip.

Mr. Frawley, who once yelled at her father for tossing beer cans into his yard, stood with his hat in his hands, looking uncomfortable.

None of these people had truly known Charles Campbell.

None of them had endured the sharpness of his anger or the weight of his silence as she had.

Heather didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried in years—not for him.

The cloying scent of white lilies clung to the air, thick and too sweet.

Her mother had loved lilies. She had filled vases with them, pressed them between book pages, breathed in their scent like it was part of her soul.

It felt wrong for them to be here, resting atop the grave of a man who had done nothing but tarnish every memory of the woman who once loved them.

When the service ended, people shuffled away, murmuring platitudes they probably thought she needed to hear.

“He’s at peace now. ”

“He’s in a better place.”

Heather only nodded, their words sliding off her like water on stone.

Silence settled over the gravesite. The sky hung low and heavy, promising snow. She exhaled slowly, letting the weight of solitude press in around her.

Then came the sharp sound of footsteps crunching on frozen ground.

“Ms. Campbell?”

Heather turned to see Robert Ellis, her father’s lawyer, standing a few feet away. Tall and stately, he had an air of precision about him, dressed impeccably in a dark overcoat and leather gloves. Too composed for the rawness of the day.

“Mr. Ellis,” she greeted him, her voice quiet.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, inclining his head.

She nodded, unsure how to respond. Loss didn’t feel like the right word. Her father had been gone long before his heart stopped beating. She had lost him years ago.

“I won’t take much of your time,” Ellis continued, his tone polite but businesslike. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. “Your father left this with me some time ago, with instructions to deliver it to you in the event of his passing.”

Heather’s breath caught.

Her name was scrawled across the front in her father’s unmistakable handwriting—slanted, uneven, like everything else about him.

She swallowed hard, shoving her hands deeper into her coat pockets. She didn’t reach for it.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ellis replied. “He insisted it be given to you directly. I understand it contains something significant, but the details are known only to him—and now, to you.”

A hesitation. Then, in a softer tone, he added, “You know, your father and I worked together for years. He was a brilliant lawyer before… everything happened. We started at the same firm. Built our careers side by side. When he lost his way, I tried to help, but he wouldn’t let me.

” His expression shifted, something somber threading into his professionalism.

“Handling his affairs now—making sure this reaches you—is my way of honoring what we once had.”

Heather hesitated a moment longer, then slowly reached out.

Her gloved fingers brushed against the smooth paper as she took the envelope from him. It felt heavier than it should have, as though it carried more than just words.

Her father had never been the type to leave kind words behind.

What could he possibly have to say to her now?

And why did she suddenly feel like a child again, curious but bracing for disappointment?

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Ellis nodded. “If you have any questions, you know how to reach me.”

Heather barely registered his departure, the sound of his retreating footsteps muffled by the growing wind. She didn’t know how long she stood there after he left.

Alone.

The cold crept through her coat. The snow melted against her cheeks. But she didn’t move .

Her name stared back at her from the envelope, haunting and familiar. She slipped it into her bag, her chest tightening as she tried to push away the flood of emotions—resentment, sorrow, the sting of old wounds reopening when she’d spent years trying to forget.

She knelt beside the grave after everyone was gone, the bitter chill of the ground through her wool tights.

The words engraved on the headstone were plain, to the point:

Charles Malcolm Campbell

Beloved Father and Husband.

Beloved.

She almost laughed.

“You weren’t much of that, were you?” she whispered.

The wind whipped through the cemetery, pulling at her curls. Her fingers traced the rough letters of his name, grounding her.

She didn’t know why she stayed. Maybe out of duty. Maybe out of habit.

Or maybe because this was the only goodbye she had to give.

“You made things so hard,” she said softly, her voice trembling under the weight of years she had kept bottled up. “You could’ve… You could’ve tried, Dad. For me. For Mom. But you didn’t.”

Her voice broke.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, willing herself to stay composed. If she let go now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pull herself back together. For years, no matter how far she ran, a part of her had still been tied to him.

But now ?

That thread had finally snapped.

And she wasn’t sure if she felt free or just lost.

She stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. The sky was gray, the clouds heavy with snow—a perfect match for the heaviness in her chest.

As she turned to leave, she hesitated, glancing back one last time. She wasn’t sure if she was mourning her father, or the wounds he left behind.

Maybe both.

Maybe that was the cruelest thing—grief and anger living side by side, neither willing to let her go.

“Goodbye, Dad,” she murmured. “I hope you find whatever peace you couldn’t here.”

A strange mixture of relief and guilt settled over her as she walked away.

She wasn’t sure what came next.

But for the first time in her life, it was hers to decide.