How Jake's death nearly destroyed me, but in rebuilding myself I created space for people like Julian. How Alfie's passing aches like an open wound, but his legacy lives in Nick, in me, in the way we show up for the people who need us.
How loving Nora and losing her taught me what I was capable of surviving, and that survival eventually turned into something that looks like purpose.
But that's life I guess. Taking your worst moments and demanding you find meaning in them. The universe's favorite party trick.
Somewhere along the way, without fully meaning to, I became the person I needed back then. The steady hand. The one who stays. The one who believes in people when they're still figuring out how to believe in themselves.
Maybe that's how you keep going—not by outrunning the past, but by turning your wreckage into a foundation someone else can build on.
By accepting that you'll never fully escape what broke you, but you can at least make sure it meant something.
CHAPTER 11
HEAVEN CLAIMS ANOTHER ANGEL
NATE
Every pewin the chapel is packed with people who knew Alfie, who loved him, who showed up to say goodbye. I arrive early because being late to this would feel like one more failure I can't afford.
Nick and Kat are near the entrance, greeting people as they file in. Nick looks exhausted in a suit that's slightly too big for him. Kat keeps her hand on his arm, anchoring him.
I hug them both, exchange the kind of quiet words that mean everything and nothing.
Mom is already inside, seated near the front. She catches my eye and gives me that look—I know this is hard, you're doing great—and I nod back.
I wasn't planning on speaking today. But Nick pulled me aside yesterday and asked if I'd say something.
So I said yes. Because you don't say no to that kind of ask, even when your chest feels too tight to breathe properly.
I take a seat in the front row, beside Mom.
The chapel fills slowly. Organ music plays softly—the kind of generic somber melody they always choose. I’m not sure Alfie would have been a fan of it, if I’m being completly honest.
I think he would have preferred‘Here Comes The Sun.’
The service starts and a minister who knew Alfie talks about service and sacrifice and love. About a man who fixed things—radios, relationships, broken kids who showed up at his door. Others speak too. People I know, people I don't. Each one adding another piece to the mosaic of who Alfie was.
Then it's my turn.
I stand, my legs steadier than I expect them to be. Walk to the front. And take a look out at the sea of faces staring back at me.
I didn't write anything down. I couldn't. Every time I tried, the words felt wrong.
Alfie deserved better than a script.
"Alfie was more than a bookseller," I start, and my voice carries better than I thought it would. "Though if you asked him, he'd probably tell you that's all he was. Just a guy who really loved books and stories and fixing radios while minding his own business."
A few soft laughs ripple through the crowd.
"But he was more than that." I pause, letting the weight of it settle. "He was a father to people who needed one. Not through blood—through choice. Through teaching us that love isn't always loud or obvious. Sometimes it's just consistency. Sometimes it's someone who doesn't leave when things get hard. Who sits with you in the dark until you remember there's light."
My throat tightens. I have to pause, look down at my hands.
"He was that for Nick. He was that for me. He taught me how to be a man worth becoming—not by telling me what to do, but by showing me what it looked like to choose kindness over bitterness. To choose grace over judgment. To choose love even when love costs us everything."
Mom's watching me, pride and sorrow mixed in her expression.
"I used to visit him at the bookshop every week. Sometimes I'd help him organize shelves, sometimes we'd just sit in the back room while he told me stories. About his time in the war. Aboutcoming home and not recognizing the person he'd become. About meeting Gracie and learning that love could heal things you thought were permanently broken. About building a life after loss—not in spite of the grief, but alongside it. Making room for both."
