Page 3 of The Messengers of Magic

Chapter Two

“Pen,” he said quietly. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, son, but… Ward passed this morning.”

Pen stared at him, the words hanging in the air like smoke. “What?”

The sheriff gave a slow nod. “He called the station earlier, said he wasn’t feeling right. Asked if I could drive him to the doctor.” He paused, swallowing hard. “By the time I got over there, he was already gone.”

Pen’s breath caught. His hands, which had been sorting through a box of spark plugs, stilled. “No,” he muttered. “No, we… we had plans. He was fine yesterday. We were gonna play chess tomorrow.”

Ben rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, the kind of touch meant to steady, though it barely registered.

Pen dropped everything he was doing and took off running down the road, his feet pounding the dirt like he could outrun the truth. Ward was old, near eighty-three, he knew that, but he hadn’t felt old. Not to Pen. He was still sharp. Still telling stories. Still part of the fabric of Pen’s days.

He didn’t remember the run. Only that, somehow, he was standing in front of Ward’s front porch, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

Ward was gone.

He stepped onto the porch, unsure what to do.

The house sat quiet, too quiet. The screen door was shut tight, the curtains still drawn.

The porch swing, Ward’s favorite spot, creaked gently in the thick, heavy air.

Pen sat on the steps at first, his legs too unsteady to go any farther.

Then, without thinking, he rose and collapsed into the swing.

And there, in the hush of early afternoon, he wept, long and hard.

As hard as he had for his mother. Harder than he ever would for his father.

With Ward gone, the last bit of joy in his life had gone with him. Nothing remained but the hollow ache in his chest.

He stayed on the porch as day faded into night and the stars fully bloomed in the sky.

Going inside felt impossible; he couldn’t bear to see what it would feel like without Ward’s presence.

So, he sat there, letting the darkness settle over him like a cloak, and eventually, the motion of the swing lulled him into restless sleep.

For days afterward, he followed the same pattern: work, then over to Ward’s house, where he spent the night on the porch swing.

At first, he tried to convince himself that Ward was just away on one of his adventures.

But no matter how much he tried to trick his mind, the sadness kept growing, blooming into something uncontainable, like a full-blown garden of grief rooted deep in his chest.

By the fourth or fifth day, Pen couldn’t say which, as the days seemed to blur together into one long, continuous stretch, he woke to the sound of a car door shutting. Sitting up, he peered over the old porch railing and saw a man in a light blue suit approaching the steps.

“Hello, sir. Are you Mr. Turner? Pen Turner?” the man inquired.

“Yes,” Pen replied, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“My name is Jensen Ross. I was Mr. Richardson’s attorney. I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve got some paperwork here I need your John Hancock on,” he said, stepping up onto the porch and pulling a thick stack of papers from his briefcase.

“Why do you need my signature?” Pen said, still groggy and not quite understanding what was going on.

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. Let me explain. Mr. Richardson had no living family, and what he had, he left to you in his will.”

Pen’s eyes grew wide. He stared at the man, completely baffled. Ward had never said a word about this. Not even a hint.

“Are you sure? That can’t be right.”

“He had no living relatives, and I assure you, he was of sound mind when he wrote the will many years ago.”

“How many years ago?” Pen asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe fifteen, maybe longer. I can’t quite remember, but I can check the records if you want an exact date.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Pen mumbled.

Fifteen years ago. He would have been eight. That was the year he started mowing Ward’s lawn. All this time, Ward had planned to leave him everything.

“He left you the deed to the house and all within it,” Mr. Ross said, breaking his thoughts.

“His car, what was left in his bank account, which is five hundred dollars, oh, and the bookstore in Helensburgh. Now, if you can sign here, I’ll get this all filed and bring you the finalized paperwork within a week. ”

“Bookstore?” Pen looked up from the papers, eyebrows raised.

“Yes. It belonged to his wife’s family. It’s been collecting cobwebs and dust ever since they inherited it nearly twenty-five years ago.”

“I’m not sure I know Helensburgh. Is it in Massachusetts?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, no. It’s in Scotland.”

Pen froze, stunned into silence.

“Now, if you can just sign here, I can get all of this processed.”

Still in a daze, Pen signed and handed the documents back. Mr. Ross packed them into his briefcase and left without another word.

Pen stood there, head swimming with questions. Why hadn’t Ward told him? Why had he never mentioned this bookstore in Scotland? Why leave it all to him?

Pen pulled a loose board up from the porch floor and grabbed the old brass key Ward had hidden there in case he ever needed a place to escape when Ward wasn’t home.

He slipped the key into the lock, turned it, and stepped inside.

The house looked and smelled as it always had.

But something essential was missing. Ward.

He walked over to the old velvet chair where Ward had spent every evening reading.

The headrest had been rubbed bare, worn down to the backing.

On the left arm, a dark stain lingered from the time when he was twelve and he’d spilled his hot cocoa on it.

He’d spent the best days of his youth in this house.

He’d always dreamed of what it would be like to live in a place such as this, but now that it was his, he didn’t want it.

Without Ward, it wasn’t a home; it felt cold and lifeless, just an empty shell of a house.

Pen entered the den and approached the oak desk, where Ward’s typewriter sat proudly in the center. He eased into the chair, running his fingers gently across the cool metal keys. On countless summer nights, he’d heard their rhythmic tapping drift through the open window.

He pulled open the large center drawer. Inside lay a scattering of papers and notes, loose and disorganized.

His gaze landed on a thick envelope, his name written across it in Ward’s handwriting.

His heart stopped. He slowly lifted it out of the drawer and turned it over.

For a long moment, he just held it. Then, carefully, he popped the seal.

Inside was a white lined piece of paper with a note.

Dear Pen,

If you are reading this, then my time here on Earth has come to an end.

I have left you all my worldly possessions.

Do with them what you will, but promise me you will follow your dreams with what I have gifted you.

My only wish is that you live up to your potential and be free of this town.

Go explore, have adventures, fall in love.

Believe in things beyond your reach. Be free.

Do you remember the story I once told you of the museum in Edinburgh where I met Emily?

Go to places like that. Experience the art and culture of other countries.

There is a big world out there with lots of places to see and people to get to know.

I want you to find the kind of happiness I did.

I want you to be the man I know you are, a man far too big for this small town.

Thank you for being the son I never had, and thank you for keeping an old man company. I will be forever grateful.

With all my best for you in this life, Pen. Until we meet again.

~Ward