Saying it out loud makes it the only choice that makes sense.
"Good," Camilla says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "Because I need help planning this wedding and you're the only person I trust not to let Jay talk me into a Lord of the Rings theme."
I laugh despite despite the fact that I'm about to blow up my entire career for a future I can't quite see but desperately want.
"I'll be there," I promise. "Soon."
"How soon?"
"Three days. Maybe less. I have some things I need to handle first."
"Things or Wes?"
"Both."
"Burn it all down, babe. You deserve better than anything that city and that piece of shit gave you."
When the call ends I move to the suitcase again, folding clothes with slow intention. There's no urgency in my body—just clarity.
When I unzip the side pocket of the bag, something familiar brushes my fingers.
Alfie's parcel.
I sink onto the floor, back against the bed, and open the envelope with careful hands. A photograph falls out first and the moment I see it, tears start streaming down my face.
My throat closes up and I have to remind myself to take a deep breath before I pass out .
It's a photo I'd forgotten existed.
Jake, Nate, and me in Gracie's bookstore, taken by Alfie himself. I can't be older than eight or nine. Jake is holding up The Chronicles of Narnia like it's treasure, grinning at the camera with that wild, unguarded joy he always had. I'm reading The Wizard of Oz, completely absorbed, one hand holding the book and the other twisting a strand of hair the way I always used to when I was concentrating.
And Nate.
Nate isn't looking at the Peter Pan book in his hands.
He's looking at me.
Even this young, there's something in his expression—something soft and certain and completely unaware that the camera's on him.
We were so young. So unaware of what was coming. All the pain and loss and years apart. All the ways we'd hurt each other while trying to protect each other. All the time we'd waste being too afraid to admit what was right in front of us.
I set the photo aside gently and unfold the letter with shaking hands.
Lenora,
If you're reading this, it means I've finally gone where all good stories end—into memory.
And if there's one thing I've learned from a lifetime of books, it's this: We don't belong to places. We belong to the people who make us feel understood inside them.
You were always meant for more than the quiet shelves of Gracie's bookstore. But you were also always meant to find your way back to what mattered most.
Like Dorothy, you had to leave Oz to understand Kansas. You had to wander to know where home really was.
Which is why I'm leaving Gracie’s to you—because you are the only one I trust with it. I hope it’s not a burden and you see it more as a promise.
A promise that stories still matter.
You have a heart that listens, Nora.
