He stops short when he sees me. The silence stretches.
“Norah?” he says finally. “What are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, but Margaret cuts in. “She brought flowers. Thought she’d check in on me.”
Something in her tone makes me shrink a little. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t see.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re all right,” I manage. “Wren and I were out running deliveries, and?—”
“Deliveries,” Margaret repeats, eyes narrowing slightly. “And now the whole town will know I’m unwell, won’t they? I don’t want pity.”
The words hit like ice water. “That’s not… No one needs to know anything. I just?—”
“Dorian,” she interrupts, her voice sharp. “Did you tell her?”
He looks between us, clearly caught. “I might’ve mentioned?—”
“Mentioned?” she snaps. “You told her. Wonderful. Why not post it on the Fox Hollow bulletin board while you’re at it?”
“Mom—” he starts, but she turns away, pacing toward the piano. Her hands tremble just slightly as she adjusts one of the picture frames.
“I don’t need sympathy,” she says. “And I don’t need visitors showing up out of pity.”
My cheeks heat, embarrassment clawing up my throat. “I wasn’t?—”
“Norah,” Dorian says quietly, stepping forward. “Maybe we should?—”
“No,” I say, forcing a breath. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have come without calling.”
“Probably not,” Margaret mutters.
That stings more than I want it to. I back toward the door, fumbling with my gloves. “I’ll let you rest.”
“Thank you for the flowers,” she says, though it sounds more like formality than gratitude.
Dorian’s still watching me. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, but it’s low, almost like he’s trying not to make it worse.
I nod, unable to trust my voice. The air feels too tight in here, full of old ghosts and new walls. I push open the door and step out into the cold.
Wren’s waiting, engine idling. When she sees my face, she doesn’t ask questions. Just reaches over and hands me a napkin. “Tea at the café?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Please.”
The ride back down the hill feels longer than before. The snow’s heavier now, the windshield wipers sweeping in a steady rhythm.
Wren hums softly under her breath, a tune I recognize from the café playlist. Something easy, meant to fill the silence without demanding attention.
She parks behind the shop and kills the engine. “Come on,” she says. “Warmth and sugar fix most things.”
Inside, the café smells like vanilla and espresso. She sets a kettle on, pulls out two mugs, and slices the banana bread. The sound of the knife against the crust drowns her humming.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says after a while. “But you should eat.”
I take a bite. It’s sweet, soft, comforting in a way I don’t deserve right now. “I shouldn’t have gone,” I say finally. “It wasn’t my place.”
“You were being kind.”
“She didn’t see it that way.”
