Page 30 of Of Heather and Thistle

H eather startled awake, breath catching in her throat.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The air was too cold, the silence too thick. Faint embers glowed in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Early morning light filtered through the dust-coated windows, pale and thin.

She exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over her face. Everything ached—not just from the labor of yesterday, but from another night spent twisting beneath unfamiliar ceilings, sleep always just out of reach.

She’d tried the bedrooms. The first night, she’d climbed into her mother’s childhood bed, quilt pulled to her chin, staring at the ceiling. But the walls had felt too close, too full of memory. After ten restless minutes, she’d gathered her blankets and padded downstairs.

For the past three nights, she’d slept by the fire in the sitting room, curling into its quiet glow. And still, the house hadn’t quite settled around her. Not yet.

Byrdie was already awake, perched on the windowsill like a sentry, tail twitching in crisp, deliberate flicks. Not lazy—watchful.

Heather sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “What do you see out there, huh?”

Byrdie chirped in reply but didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

Frowning, Heather shuffled over to join her.

The fields beyond stretched quiet and still, damp grass gleaming under the hesitant sun.

Nothing seemed amiss. But a strange feeling crept into her gut, like she was watching something she wasn’t meant to.

She shook it off and sighed. “Alright. Another big day. Let’s see how much I can get done before I collapse. ”

First up: plumbing—or what might pass for it.

The pipes groaned in protest when she tested the taps, but after some coaxing, a sputter of water came through.

Rusty at first, then clearer. It was enough.

The upstairs bathroom would need a deep clean, but at least she wouldn’t have to haul water from town.

She spent the morning wiping down windowsills, knocking decades of dust and cobwebs loose. Each swipe of the cloth revealed more of the house’s story—cracks in the plaster, intricate woodwork, hints of wallpaper faded to near memory.

She paused at the staircase, her hand resting on the banister. Had her mother once stood here, just like this?

Had she run these halls? Laughed in these rooms?

Had she ever imagined her daughter would return, trying to stitch their history back together?

Heather exhaled slowly. Maybe I’ll find out. One way or another.

By noon, her stomach growled. She made a sandwich and tea, then stepped outside to the back garden while Byrdie took her usual inspection of a single patch of grass, nose buried, tail upright in concentration.

The air was crisp with damp earth and distant woodsmoke. Birds rustled in the hedges. Somewhere beyond the trees, a sheep called out in a bleating yawn.

Peaceful. Unexpected.

Heather glanced at the tangled garden. The stone paths were nearly swallowed by weeds, but beneath the mess, she could see what it might become again—if she was willing to try.

A vision bloomed: lavender lining the walkway, wildflowers spilling over the edges, a weathered bench tucked beneath the old willow at the property’s edge.

The idea settled in her chest—warm, steady.

One thing at a time , she reminded herself, draining the last of her tea.

After lunch, she turned her attention to the attic.

The stairs groaned underfoot as she climbed, dust rising in lazy spirals. The attic door was swollen with age, reluctant to give way, but after a few firm shoves, it opened with a long, splintering creak.

The space stretched wide and quiet. Sloped ceilings met at timber beams that looked older than the house itself. The air was heavy with dust, the scent of old paper and something faintly sweet—like forgotten flowers pressed between pages.

She stepped carefully across the worn floorboards, each one whispering beneath her boots.

Trunks and boxes loomed in uneven stacks, draped with sheets faded to the color of ghosts.

Stray shafts of sunlight slipped through cracks in the shutters, catching the dust midair—stars suspended in stillness.

She tugged the sheet from the nearest trunk. A puff of dust rose like a breath released, making her cough as she waved it away. Kneeling, she unlatched the brass clasp and lifted the lid with a soft groan of hinges.

Inside: neatly folded linens, a few moth-eaten sweaters, and—beneath it all—a bundle of letters tied with a fraying ribbon.

Heather froze.

She hadn’t expected to find anything of value, much less anything personal. But the paper was fragile beneath her fingers, the ink faded but still legible.

And then she saw the name.

The top letter was addressed in looping script to Elidh Mackenzie.

Her mother.

Department of Archaeology her father, practical and grounded, more interested in answers than questions. And yet, for a time, they had worked.

Eilidh had always spoken about Chicago with fondness, painting it in sepia tones—crisp autumns by the lake, the thrill of new beginnings. She used to describe the university library, the smell of old books, the sense that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

“And then, of course,” she’d say with a teasing grin, “your father walked in, looking so serious and impatient, trying to check out the same book I’d already claimed. ”

Heather chuckled under her breath. That had been their beginning—a fight over a book about Scottish history.

“I let him have it, eventually,” Eilidh would say. “He was cute. And I like to keep things interesting.”

Heather’s smile faded as her gaze dropped to the letter in her lap.

She had never doubted her mother’s love. But here, in Glenoran—the place Eilidh had left behind—it struck her just how intentionally her mother had chosen a different life. She hadn’t run from something. She had run toward it.

Adventure. Discovery. A new world she built with her own two hands.

And yet, she had never really let go of Glenoran. Somehow, she’d anchored herself to this place—as if she always knew Heather would need to find it one day.

Eilidh hadn’t been stuck here. She had left because she wanted to.

Because there was a whole world waiting. And still… she had made sure Glenoran would come back to her daughter.

A lump formed in Heather’s throat, but it wasn’t grief. Not exactly.

It was gratitude.

“I hope you get to have an adventure too, mo leanbh ,” her mother had once whispered, brushing a curl behind her ear. “It doesn’t have to be like mine. But promise me—you won’t let the world stay small.”

Heather swallowed hard, thumb brushing over her mother’s name at the top of the page.

“I promise, Mom.”

Carefully, she folded the letter and tucked it back into the box .

She hadn’t expected an old acceptance letter to make her feel so close to her mother. But it did. It was a reminder that Eilidh had once been young, too—a dreamer. A girl ready to take on the world.

Heather glanced at the darkened staircase, the upper floors cloaked in quiet shadows. She still wasn’t ready to sleep up there. Not yet.

Instead, she pulled a thick blanket from her things and settled on the couch in the sitting room, letting the last embers of the fire warm the space. Byrdie curled at her feet, purring softly, and for a brief moment, Heather allowed herself to feel safe.

The house creaked as wind stirred outside, a low groan passing through its bones. She pulled the blanket tighter, adjusting it over her shoulders.

“Alright, house,” she murmured to the empty room. “We’ll figure this out together.”

The words hung in the silence, but somehow… they made her feel less alone.

Tomorrow, she’d begin.

One room at a time.

One step at a time.

And for now, she let her eyes drift shut—finally surrendering to sleep.