The world tilts.
For a moment, everything around me blurs—the venue, the voices, the gold and marble and carefully curated beauty.
All I can hear is the soft catch in my mother's voice, the grief she's holding back because she's always been better at holding things together than falling apart.
I step away from the group. Find a corner near the windows. Press my back against the cool stone wall.
"Oh," I say stupidly. Uselessly. One small sound trying to contain everything rushing through me at once.
Alfie with his sun-worn skin and crooked smile. Alfie who smelled like old paper and peppermint tea. Alfie who had Gracie’s bookstore on Main Street—the one with the creaky floors, the one I practically lived in every summer.
He knew what I was reading before I did. Would set books aside for me with little notes tucked inside:Thought you'd like this oneorThis reminded me of you.
He never made me feel like I was taking up too much space, even when I'd spend entire afternoons curled up in the corner reading anything he'd recommended.
He'd become a fixture in our lives—in the whole town's life, really. Everyone knew Alfie. But he and Mom built a special kinship, especially after she married Nick.
He sent me postcards after I left for LA. Little notes about new arrivals at the store, about the town, about how proud he was that I was chasing my dreams.
He always signed them the same way:Keep writing, kiddo. The world needs your words.
I write back at first. Little notes about school, about writing, about the places I think I might go someday.
Then life gets busy and I stop replying.
The guilt settles heavy and hot in my stomach.
"I don't know what to say," I whisper, not sure who I'm apologizing to anymore.
Mom exhales slowly. "I know, sweetheart. I just… I wanted you to hear it from me."
There's a pause. She's breathing on the other end. I picture her sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea going cold, holding herself together.
"He went peacefully," she says finally. "Nick was with him." Her voice cracks slightly. "He was making plans right up until the end."
That sounds like Alfie. Always looking forward, always believing there was another chapter coming.
"I should have visited more," I say, the words catching in my throat.
“You were busy," Mom says gently. "He was so proud of you, Nora. He had your book on display in the front window. Told everyone who came in that he knew you'd make it."
The guilt sharpens, cuts deeper.
We talk for a while after that. Really talk. The way we used to before distance and time zones and my carefully curated independence put space between us.
I tell her things I haven't said out loud in years. About how lost I am. About how everything looks right from the outside and feels wrong on the inside.
"You know you can always come home," she says softly.
I swallow hard. "Eden doesn't really feel like home anymore."
“Well, sometimes you need to go back somewhere to remember who you were before life got so complicated."
I close my eyes.
"How's Nick handling it?" I ask.
"He's been busy," she says. "Arranging the funeral. Keeping himself occupied. I don't think it's hit him yet."
