Page 3 of Of Heather and Thistle

H eather unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped inside, the scent of fresh coffee and laundry detergent wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. It was a stark contrast to the drafty, stale house she’d grown up in—a house that had never really felt like home.

Her apartment wasn’t much—a small one-bedroom tucked into the second floor of an older building—but it was hers. She had picked every piece of furniture and every mug in the cupboard, carving out a safe space for herself, for the first time in her life.

Byrdie was waiting for her, perched on the back of the sofa like a tiny sentinel. The tortoiseshell cat blinked at her with wide, curious eyes before hopping down with a chirp, weaving through Heather’s legs.

“Hey, Byrdie,” she murmured, crouching to scratch behind the cat’s ears. Byrdie purred, pressing into her touch, her warmth a welcome comfort against the lingering chill Heather still felt from standing at the gravesite.

Heather shrugged off her coat, draping it over the arm of the couch, and moved into the kitchen. The heels of her boots clicked softly against the hardwood as she filled Byrdie’s bowl. The kitchen was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft crunch of kibble.

She sank onto the couch, exhaustion settling into her bones.

For a moment, she simply sat there, letting the silence stretch.

Then, with slow, deliberate movements, she pulled the envelope from her bag and set it on the table.

She ran her fingers over the heavy paper, tracing the uneven slant of her father’s handwriting.

She could open it. Read whatever parting words he had left for her. But if she did, it would become real.

Heather inhaled sharply, then let out a slow, measured breath.

“Not tonight,” she whispered, setting the envelope aside.

Instead, she grabbed the fleece blanket draped over the back of the couch and curled into it.

A moment later, Byrdie hopped up beside her, pressing into her side with a contented sigh.

Heather closed her eyes and let herself breathe, let herself feel the quiet comfort of her cat’s warmth, let herself be still.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would face whatever was inside that envelope.

Tonight, she just needed to rest.

* * *

Morning arrived too soon.

Heather woke to soft light filtering through the curtains and Byrdie’s insistent meows at the foot of the bed.

Her body felt heavy—like the weight of yesterday had followed her into sleep.

She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling unmoored.

The funeral was over. Her father was gone.

And yet, the envelope still sat on the kitchen table, unanswered.

Byrdie let out an impatient chirp before hopping onto the bed, nudging her head against Heather’s arm.

“Alright, alright. I’m up,” Heather grumbled, raking a hand through her tangled curls as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She shuffled into the kitchen, Byrdie trotting close behind, her tail flicking with purpose. After feeding her, Heather turned to the kettle, filling it without thinking. It was a small ritual she had developed—always filling it the night before, so mornings were just a little easier.

The water began to warm, the soft hum filling the silence. The whistle eventually curled steam into the air, but Heather barely heard it. Her gaze had locked onto the envelope.

Still unopened. Still waiting.

She hesitated, fingers hovering just above it.

She could do it now. Tear it open. Face whatever was inside.

But her hand faltered.

Not yet.

Instead, she grabbed her coat. If she stayed here, alone with her thoughts, they would suffocate her. If anyone could pull her out of her head, it was Ivy.

* * *

The city was still waking up when Heather stepped outside, the crisp morning air biting at her cheeks. She tucked her scarf tighter around her neck and started down the quiet, tree-lined street toward the bus stop.

A few minutes later, she climbed aboard and settled into her usual seat by the window.

The ride was short, the city passing by in a blur of weathered brownstones, quiet storefronts, and coffee shops flicking on their lights.

The green-and-white sign of The Roasted Bean waited for her—just like it always did.

Inside, the smell of espresso and cinnamon wrapped around her like a warm embrace.

Ivy was already there, tucked into their usual corner, hands wrapped around a steaming latte.

Her golden-blonde hair was mostly hidden beneath a knit beanie, but a few loose strands framed her face, catching the light.

She looked effortlessly put-together, as always, her oversized scarf draped perfectly around her delicate frame.

Ivy had the kind of beauty that turned heads without trying.

She spotted Heather and waved, her turquoise eyes bright with warmth.

“Hey, you!” Ivy greeted as Heather slid into the chair across from her. “I was starting to think you were going to bail and leave me to awkwardly flirt with the barista for entertainment.”

Heather smirked. “Trust me, I debated it. But pacing my apartment like a crazy person wasn’t a better option.”

Ivy unwrapped her scarf and shook out her golden waves, the movement easy, practiced. Attention always followed her, like moths to light. And Heather had never minded standing in the glow.

Ivy arched a brow. “So, rough morning? ”

“Rough week,” Heather corrected.

Ivy hummed knowingly. “Yeah, sounds about right. Funerals are kind of the Olympics of awkwardness. Did you at least make it through without anyone cornering you with unsolicited life advice?”

Heather exhaled a short laugh. “No unsolicited advice. But my dad’s lawyer gave me an envelope with my name on it. He said it’s important, but I haven’t opened it.”

Ivy’s brows shot up. “Oh? Mystery mail? Are we talking heartfelt letter, surprise will, or a long-lost family scandal?”

Heather sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I’m too nervous to open it. What if it’s something bad? It’s not like it’s going to change anything. He’s gone.”

Ivy tilted her head, studying her. “But what if it’s not bad? What if it’s something you need to see, even if it’s hard?”

Heather’s grip tightened around her coffee cup, her stomach twisting. Her father had never ended a conversation with kindness. What were the odds that his final words to her would be any different?

She exhaled slowly, looking up to find Ivy watching her. Steady. Unwavering.

Ivy had always believed in her—so deeply, so unquestionably—that it should have been reassuring. But sometimes, it felt like too much. Like Ivy wasn’t just expecting her to succeed—she was expecting her to need her.

Heather wasn’t sure how to include Ivy in this.

Silence stretched between them, the only sound the quiet hum of the coffee shop and the snow falling softly outside.

Then Ivy set her mug down with purpose. “No matter what’s in there, it doesn’t change who you are. You’re Heather freaking Campbell, and you figure it out. You always do! ”

Heather let out a soft laugh. “You make me sound a lot cooler than I actually am.”

“No, I just see you for who you really are.” Ivy winked, draining the last sip of her coffee before stretching lazily. “Alright, I’ve gotta run—I’m meeting Theo for lunch. Not sure if it’s a date, but hey, free food.”

Heather nodded. “Yeah. I think I just need some time to think.”

Ivy nudged Heather’s coffee cup. “Just don’t think too hard.” Then, with another wink, she was gone.

Heather watched the snow drift outside, the weight of the envelope pressing against the edges of her thoughts.

She wasn’t ready to go home—not yet.

So instead, she kept walking.