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Three dots appeared, then vanished. A beat. Three dots appeared, then:
Ruairidh: OK. Feel better. See you soon.
She stared at the words, thumb hovering like she might change her mind—say, actually yes, coffee would be great—but the moment passed. She set the phone face down and slumped back on the pillow. A gentle knock sounded on her door.
Jenn looked over bleary-eyed and wary—Granny Annag. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“Morning—well, afternoon, m’ eudail…” Granny Annag said gently, placing a cup of tea and slices of well-buttered toast beside Jenn.
Jenn smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Granny.”
“Rough night?” Granny Annag asked as she settled on the edge of Jenn’s bed.
Jenn felt her emotions rising. Tears welling in her eyes. She blinked to stop them.
“Hey, hey. You’re with me. Tears are for washing the heart, m’ eudail. Let them fall. They leave space for light again.” Granny Annag coaxed, rubbing her hand.
“Oh Granny. Where do I start?” Jenn began as tears tumbled from her eyes once more.
But tears, it turned out, didn’t solve anything. They just left her hollow.
* * *
In the weeks that followed, Jenn felt like she was on autopilot. She moved through days like someone walking underwater, the weight of indecision pressing heavier on her chest with every breath.
How could she stay in Hellisay? What would that even look like? Her job was meant to end in March. Her things, her life—such as it was—were still boxed up in storage back on the mainland. Every time she pictured going back to Edinburgh, it came to her too clearly: her parents’ house, some random job, the noise and the rush—and of course, more god-awful dates with sloppy kisses and cheap rosé.
No Ruairidh. No café banter. No baking at stupid o’clock. No firelit evenings with Morag. No nights out with the yoga girls. No quiet that felt like home.
The thought made her stomach twist. Her skin felt clammy. Her pulse ticked hard in her throat, that low, restless panic creeping back in. She pressed a hand against her sternum like she could steady it, but the air still felt too thin.
She hadn’t planned the next adventure. For once, she didn’t want to. Trust her to finally build a life she hadn’t meant to—and have no idea how to unbuild it. Typical.
Everyone knew something was off. They tiptoed around it as if one wrong word would break something already fragile. No one dared to touch it. They wanted to say something, to reach through the silence, but the weight of what wasn’t being said held them back. Jenn had retreated inside herself, the familiar walls of defence sliding back into place. An old, unwelcome part of herself she’d hoped she’d left behind.
Things with Ruairidh had shifted. He’d asked what was wrong, of course. She’d blamed the hangover at first, then January tiredness, then work. He didn’t push too much. Nothing beyond what she was willing to give. He still texted, still turned up, still kissed her like he meant it. Sometimes he’d swing by the café for a takeaway coffee he didn’t really need, leaning on the counter while she boxed up a slice of carrot cake, eyes searching her face like he was trying to read a language he used to know. But she felt the confusion in the pauses—the way he’d study her face for a second too long or hesitate as if he was going to say something. Once or twice, she caught him frowning when he thought she wasn’t looking. She told herself she’d imagined it. She told herself a lot of things.
He was steady, warm, present. Exactly the same as before. And she hated that she couldn’t match it—not when every kiss tasted like borrowed time. The emotional closeness had thinned. And yet the physical side of things had sharpened—almost desperate. Like neither of them knew how much longer this version of them could last.
One night, he’d kissed her against her kitchen counter with such urgency she’d almost given in to the illusion that nothing had changed—but when he’d pulled back, eyes searching hers, she’d looked away. Just weeks ago, they’d kissed under fireworks and shooting stars, wrapped in warmth and possibility. Now, when he kissed her, she swore she could taste goodbye lingering on his lips. And maybe he could taste it on hers too.
“The clock’s ticking”, the universe seemed to whisper.
Chapter 39
Imbolc was one of the lesser-known pagan festivals, marking the fragile turning point between winter and spring. Legend said that on this day, Beira gathered her firewood for the rest of the season. If she wanted winter to drag on, she’d make sure the weather was bright and sunny, so she could collect more wood. But if the day was miserable and grey, Beira was asleep, and the worst of winter was finally over.
On Hellisay, Imbolc meant the start of lambing season and the promise of spring’s slow arrival. Some of the older generation—or those with a touch of superstition—still visited the island’s holy wells, walking ‘sunwise’ and whispering prayers. The blessed water was carefully saved to protect homes, family, livestock, and crofts. Some even poured milk into the sea and onto the fields for a plentiful harvest.
Granny Annag and Auntie Peigi used to tell stories about the Brìdeag—a doll-like figure made of rushes or reeds, dressed with scraps of cloth, flowers, and shells. The Brìdeag would be paraded around the island, a bright shell or crystal pinned to her chest, and placed gently into a small bed made from a basket.
These days, it was the children who kept the tradition alive, weaving Brigid’s crosses in school and bringing them home to hang by the door. It was also customary to give the house a proper spring clean, then gather the family for a hearty meal—potatoes, dumplings, and bannock, warming bellies and spirits alike. As always on Hellisay, a festival bonfire on the beach was the perfect excuse to welcome the approaching spring—unless the weather turned sour, in which case candlelight filled homes instead. Blackthorn would soon begin to flower, and bottles of sloe gin from the previous harvest were cracked open—a last dark taste of winter before spring properly arrived.
The café was humming. The air smelled of coffee beans and cheese toasties, mixed with the faint tang of winter sea salt sneaking through the doorway every time someone came in. It had been like this for weeks now—constant, bustling, alive—and Jenn couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride every time she looked around. The place was thriving.
Shame she wasn’t.
Ealasaid was wiping down the counter with her usual brisk efficiency when she suddenly paused, her gaze pinning Jenn. “You know,” she said, leaning on the counter, “I’ve been thinking.”
