The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 5

The walk to the Ridley house was not long, but Rowan took it slowly, as though distance might give him extra courage. Pinebridge’s streets lay softened under snow, the brick sidewalks dusted pale, the lamplight pooling in warm circles that made the night feel less like a void and more like a passage. His breath steamed in front of him, quickening whenever his thoughts ran ahead.

He held the book inside his coat as if it were a fragile thing, though it was not the binding he feared to damage. The weight of it pressed gently against his ribs, a reminder that he was doing something he had avoided for too long: choosing to show up.

He passed the square, now mostly empty. The fountain sat quiet beneath its evergreen garland. A few footprints crossed the snow where children had gathered earlier, already softening at the edges. The carolers were long gone, as was the storyteller. Pinebridge had returned to its Christmas Eve hush, a town holding its breath between one year and the next.

Rowan’s phone vibrated once in his pocket. He paused under a lamppost and pulled it out.

Mom: Finishing up. You still out?

Rowan stared at the message, warmth blooming unexpectedly in his chest. He typed with his thumb, hesitating only once.

Yes. I’m okay, stopping by the Ridley’s. I’ll be home later. Love you.

He sent it before he could rethink it, then slipped the phone away and kept walking, as if the act of answering honestly and without delay were part of a new discipline.

The hill toward Maren’s street rose gently, lined with festively-decorated maples whose branches wore small ridges of snow. Houses sat back from the road behind low fences and winter shrubs. Some windows glowed with tree lights; others were dark, curtains drawn, families gathered in rooms Rowan could not see.

When he reached the Ridley place, he slowed.

The porch light was on. A wreath hung on the door, evergreen and pinecones and a ribbon tied in exactly the same was as Mrs. Ridley had done for years. The yard was neat despite the season, walkway shoveled earlier, a thin dusting of new snow already settling across the cleared path.

Rowan stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up at the front door as though waiting for it to speak, perhaps to grant him permission to approach.

He could still turn around. He could still go back to his Mom’s little house, sit in the kitchen with a mug of tea, and tell himself that he’d tried. He could still let time do what it always did… turn urgency into delay, delay into distance.

Instead, Rowan climbed the steps.

At the top, he took out the book, the green cloth cover dull and familiar in his gloved hands. He held it openly, not tucked away, and raised his other hand to knock.

He knocked once, briskly, then again, softer.

The waiting that followed felt enormous, though it could not have been more than a few seconds. He listened for footsteps, for movement, for any sign that he wasn’t alone on this porch with his winter breath and his regrets.

At last, the lock turned. The door opened a few inches, just enough for warm air to spill out, scented with cinnamon and something savory… dinner long finished yet its traces lingering.

Maren’s face appeared in the gap.

For a moment, she only looked at him, as though her eyes were taking inventory: Rowan’s hair damp with not quite fully melted snow, his coat speckled white as well, and the book in his hands. Her expression was cautious, but not hard. Finally, her gaze lifted fully to his.

Rowan’s throat tightened. “Hi,” he managed.

Maren blinked once, slowly. “Rowan.”

The way she said his name was not accusation, but it wasn’t purely welcoming either. It was recognition. It was at least the glimmering of a door opening.

Maren stepped back, opening the door wide enough to grant passage.

“You’re slightly snowy,” she said, as if that were the strangest part of this. “Come in.”

Rowan stepped over the threshold.

The entryway was warm, the air thicker than outside, the house holding heat in defiance of (or perhaps due to) its age. He shook snow from his coat and tried not to look too wildly around, though everything felt instantly familiar: the coat hooks, the small table by the wall, the old framed photo of a younger Maren with missing front teeth, grinning into the camera.

A lamp in the living room cast soft light across the hallway. Somewhere deeper in the house, Rowan heard the soft yet distinct “click” of a kettle being set. The tree lights glowed faintly from the corner of the room, though the tree itself was partly obscured from where he stood.

Maren watched him quietly, arms loosely folded across her sweater. She looked older than the images from his memories, but not different. Still Maren. Still steady.

Rowan held the book out with both hands, an offering that felt too small for what he meant and too heavy for the moment.

“I…” He stopped, swallowed. All of the words he’d rehearsed over all of the years evaporated. What remained was simpler and more honest.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “I should have been here.”

Maren’s shoulders rose slightly with a breath, then fell. Her gaze dropped to the book.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice careful in a different way now.

Rowan looked down at the green cover, as if seeing it anew. “It’s… The Night Before Christmas,” he said. “Not… not the one. But like it.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “I heard it in the square tonight. And I remembered… I remembered your dad reading it.”

Maren’s eyes flickered, just once, and Rowan saw grief move across her face like a cloud passing over the moon. She blinked, steadying herself, and reached out to take the book.

Her fingers lingered on the worn cloth. She turned it slightly, reading the title, tracing the dulled gold letters. For a long moment she said nothing. Rowan told himself to hold still, to let her have her reaction without expectation.

When Maren finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “You remember that.”

Rowan nodded. “Of course I do.”

Maren’s throat moved as she swallowed. “It was… one of his favorite things,” she said, and the word was landed like a stone.

Rowan felt his eyes sting. He looked away quickly, focusing on the familiar hallway wall, the shadow cast by the lamp.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he admitted. “After… after he died. After I…” He faltered, but forced himself to finish. “…after I didn’t come. And I meant to. I really did. And then I… did what I always do.”

Maren didn’t react, but kept staring at the book.

“And I hate that about myself,” Rowan continued. “I’ve hated it for years. I keep thinking I’ll be different, and then I’m not. And I…” His voice cracked, but he steadied it with effort. “I don’t want to be like that anymore.”

Maren’s gaze shifted to study him, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then she let out a slow breath, a meditative exhalation.

“Rowan,” she said, softer, “I’ve known you since we were seven. You’ve always been like this. You get overwhelmed and you pull back. That’s… you.”

Rowan’s shame surged again. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” Maren agreed. “It doesn’t. It hurts. Especially this time.”

Rowan’s eyes closed briefly. The honesty was a relief and a wound all at once.

Maren continued, voice steady. “But I didn’t think you didn’t care,” she said. “I thought you were scared. And busy. And maybe… something else?”

Rowan opened his eyes. “I was… ashamed.”

“Thought as much.”

The simplicity of it, of her saying she knew, unlocked something in Rowan’s chest. He exhaled shakily, realizing how long he’d been braced against her anger, anger that he’d only conjured in his own mind.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me,” Rowan confessed. “I didn’t know if you were done.”

Maren’s eyebrows lifted slightly, as if the idea surprised her. “Done?” she repeated.

Rowan spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t know. People… people get tired.”

Maren’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “I did get tired,” she admitted. “I got tired of being the one who reached out first. I got tired of wondering if I was worth the effort to you.”

“And then,” Maren added, quieter, “Dad died, and everything else felt… smaller. Like none of that kind of stuff mattered. Except it did, because suddenly I realized all the things we put off can become permanent.”

Rowan nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

Maren looked down at the book again, then at Rowan. “Why now?” she asked.

Rowan’s gaze drifted toward the living room, toward the faint glow of the Christmas tree lights, toward the warmth of the house that had once felt like his as much as hers. He thought of the store, with its quiet shelves, the kept things, the way the world had seemed to pause as he stepped inside.

He did not know how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. So he told the truth that mattered.

“Because I realized I’ve been living like there’s always more time,” he said. “And there isn’t.”

Maren stared at him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, as if accepting something that had been offered: not the book, but Rowan’s intention.

“Okay,” she said simply.

The word made Rowan’s eyes sting again. He blinked hard.

Maren stepped back, turning slightly toward the living room. “Come sit,” she said. “Mum’s in the kitchen. She’ll probably hear you in a minute and come out and cry all over you.”

Rowan let out a small laugh. “Yeah?” he said.

Maren’s mouth finally softened into something that was, unmistakably, a smile. It was small and weary, but real. “Yeah.”

Rowan followed her into the living room.

The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights warm, ornaments a mix of old and new. Rowan recognized several: a small wooden bird with one wing carved just so; a tin soldier hanging from a branch by a loop of string; a snow globe ornament that looked suspiciously like the one he’d seen in the store, though this one was intact.

He stopped short, struck by the sight.

Maren noticed. Her smile wavered. “We kept a lot,” she said softly. “Dad… liked tradition. Mum too.”

Rowan nodded, unable to speak.

Maren sat in her traditional spot on the couch, the book in her lap. Rowan took spot at the other end, his traditional spot. The cushions felt different, yet familiar. Time had not taken away their comfort.

For a moment they simply looked at each other, the silence between them no longer filled with avoidance, but with the awkwardness of beginnings.

Then the kettle whistled faintly from the kitchen, and footsteps approached.

Helen appeared in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands. She took one look at Rowan and stopped as if the world had tilted.

“Rowan?” she said, voice catching on the name.

Rowan stood quickly, almost knocking his knees against the chair. “Hi, Mrs. Ridley.”

Helen crossed the room in three swift steps and pulled him into a hug that smelled like soap and cinnamon and home.

“Oh, love,” she whispered. “Oh, love.”

Rowan’s throat closed. He shut his eyes and let himself be held, returning the embrace.

When Helen finally released him, she held his face between her hands, studying him fiercely. “You look thin,” she scolded, though her eyes were wet. “Sit down. I’ll make tea. And then you can tell us where you’ve been hiding yourself.”

Rowan glanced at Maren. Maren nodded. A quick gesture, small and sure. Rowan sat.

Helen moved back toward the kitchen, wiping at her cheeks with the edge of her towel and muttering something about “these blasted onions” though no onions were visible anywhere. Maren smiled at Rowan, mouthed I told you so, then opened the book carefully, like someone touching a fragile memory.

Rowan watched her fingers trace the inscription. He saw her swallow, saw her blink quickly.

“Do you want…” Rowan began, then hesitated, unsure if he had the right to ask.

Maren looked up. “What?”

Rowan’s voice was quiet. “Do you want to read it?” he asked. “Like your dad used to?”

Maren glanced toward the kitchen as if checking whether her mother would object, then back to Rowan. “We can,” she said. “If you want.”

Rowan nodded. “I do.”

Maren adjusted herself on the couch, opened to the first page, and drew in a breath.

Rowan listened.

Her voice was not Thomas’s voice. It didn’t have his depth or his steady cadence. But it carried something of him anyway — his warmth, his gentleness, the way he made the words feel like a promise rather than a performance.

Outside, snow drifted lazily past the window, catching the lamplight. Inside, the room held its warmth. Rowan felt the story settle around them like a familiar blanket, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe that some things weren’t broken beyond repair.

They were simply waiting.

And tonight, at last, he had come back.

The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 4

The deeper Rowan went, the quieter the store became. Not silent, but hushed in the way a room grows still when everyone has finished speaking and waits to hear what will be said next. The shelves here were lower, the aisles wider. Objects sat alone or in careful pairs, no longer crowded by their neighbors, as though they had earned the right to their own space.

Rowan slowed, uncertain whether the heaviness in his chest was dread or relief.

He had (perhaps foolishly) expected that understanding himself would be enough. That naming the shape of his fear would somehow solve it. Instead, he felt stripped bare, every defense laid gently but firmly aside. He knew why he had withdrawn. He knew how his silence had calcified into distance. 

What he still did not know was whether there was anything left to return to.

A narrow shelf stood against the far wall, its contents sparse. Rowan approached it with care, as though it might vanish if he moved too quickly. On the middle shelf lay a small wooden box, its lid carved with a simple pattern of pine branches. The workmanship was uneven, the lines not quite symmetrical. He recognized it immediately and took it with as much care as his trembling hands could muster. He sat down on a small nearby bench before his legs decided to stop supporting him.

Maren had made the box in shop class one winter, insisting it was meant for “important things.” Rowan had laughed at the time, asking what could possibly qualify.

“Things you don’t want to forget,” she’d said, offended.

He lifted the lid.

Inside, resting on a folded piece of tissue paper, was a note. The paper was creased, the ink slightly faded, but the handwriting was unmistakable: Maren’s, rounded and confident even when she was young.

You forgot this again, the note read. I’m keeping it safe. —M.

He remembered the day now: a summer afternoon, humid and bright, when he’d left the Ridley house in a rush, distracted by something trivial. He’d forgotten the small stone he always carried in his pocket then. It was a smooth, reddish-brown piece of sandstone, one he’d picked up on the same day he and Maren first walked to the river alone. He’d only realized it was missing hours later, too late to go back.

He had assumed it was gone. His hands trembled as he lifted the tissue paper. The stone sat nestled inside, unchanged.

Rowan pressed his lips together, hard, and nodded once, as though answering a question he had either forgotten or been unwilling to ask.

So Maren had kept things.

He closed the box carefully and stood, the bench creaking softly in protest. The store seemed to shift around him, not rearranging itself so much as guiding his attention onward, like a subtle hand at his back.

Another display waited nearby: a single book laid open beneath a glass cover. Rowan approached it slowly, already certain of what he would find.

The page was not from The Night Before Christmas itself, but from a flyleaf. The paper was thick, yellowed with age. The handwriting was neat and deliberate, each word pressed firmly enough to leave a faint impression on the page behind it.

For Maren and Rowan, it read.
So you’ll always have a story to come back to.
—Dad

Thomas had never been extravagant with words. He’d been affectionate, yes, and steady, but his love had lived mostly in action, in showing up, in listening, in making room. Seeing the sentiment laid out so plainly struck Rowan with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

He had not imagined himself in Thomas’s future-facing thoughts. He had assumed without evidence that time and distance had thinned him into a footnote.

The store, it seemed, disagreed.

“You were never forgotten,” Silas said quietly.

Rowan startled, then exhaled as he turned. The shopkeep still stood a respectful distance away, his presence no longer surprising so much as… grounding. Like a landmark you notice more clearly once you know where you are.

“I didn’t think I was,” Rowan said automatically. Then he stopped. The words rang hollow even to him. He shook his head gently.

“I think,” Rowan corrected slowly, “that I told myself I was. Because it was easier than believing I mattered and still stayed away.”

Silas nodded once. “That’s often how it works.”

Rowan swallowed. “She was hurt.”

“Yes,” Silas agreed, without hesitation. “But not in the way you fear.”

Rowan looked up sharply.

Silas’s gaze rested on the small wooden box, the folded note, the kept stone. “Some people understand distance,” he said gently. “They don’t like it. They certainly don’t consciously choose it. But they recognize it for what it is.”

Rowan’s voice came out rough. “And what is it?”

Silas considered him. “A language,” he said. “Poorly spoken, perhaps, and sometimes misunderstood, but typically by the source, not the audience, especially in your case.”

Rowan turned back to the book beneath the glass. “I was afraid she’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Silas shook his head. “She decided you were worth keeping room for.”

The distinction hit Rowan with startling clarity. He felt something shift inside him… not a dramatic breaking, but a careful realignment, like a door finally hung straight on its hinges.

Rowan moved on, his steps steadier now. At the end of the aisle, set apart on a small table draped with green felt, lay the book he had been searching for. He knew it without touching it.

The cover was green cloth, faded to a softer shade at the edges. The corners were worn, the spine bowed inward from years of being held open. Gold lettering spelled out the familiar title, dulled but intact.

Rowan approached it slowly, reverently. When he lifted it, the weight was exactly right. Inside the front cover, in handwriting he recognized instantly, was a note written at a slight slant, the ink darker in some places than others.

Read often, read together. And if it falls apart, remember that it was loved.
—T.R.

Rowan closed the book and held it to his chest, not hiding it, simply acknowledging its presence.

Silas stood beside him now, closer than before. “That one,” he said, “has been waiting.”

“For me?” Rowan asked quietly.

“For what you’re ready to do,” Silas replied.

Rowan nodded. He felt calmer than he had all evening, though the sadness had not disappeared. It had simply changed shape. Less sharp, more spacious.

“I don’t know what to say to her,” Rowan admitted.

Silas smiled, small and kind. “You might not have to say much… maybe not anything at all. But you do have to bring the truth with you. That will be enough.”

Rowan looked around, suddenly aware of how finite the space felt now. The shelves no longer stretched endlessly. The store seemed… complete.

“What happens to this place?” he asked.

Silas tilted his head, glancing around the store and smiling faintly. “It remains.”

Rowan smiled faintly in return. That seemed like the appropriate answer.

He turned toward the exit, the book secure in his hands. As he walked, he noticed the objects he had passed before — the scarf, the bird, the tree stand — now resting quietly, no longer demanding his attention.

At the door, Rowan paused and looked back.

“Thank you,” he said, unsure who, or what, he was thanking.

Silas smiled warmly, nodded his head, and bowed slightly. Rowan got the feeling that he would be welcome back.

The bell chimed softly as Rowan stepped out into the night.

The snow had slowed, flakes drifting lazily through the lamplight. Pinebridge looked the same as it had before. Its brick sidewalks mostly white with collected snow, its glowing storefront windows radiating light and warmth, everything set with the quiet patience of winter. Despite this, Rowan felt changed within it, steadier, as though he’d finally learned how to stand.

He turned toward the Ridley house and began to walk, the book warm against his coat, carrying with him what had been kept—and what, at last, had been found.

 

The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 3

Rowan stepped into the narrow aisle Silas had indicated, and the shop seemed to hush around him, ambient noises muffled as if he’d just slipped on his favorite childhood earmuffs. The light here was softer… not dim exactly, but gentled, like lamplight filtered through old glass. The air held the same cedar-and-paper comfort as the front of the store, yet underneath it was something else: a faint trace of pine sap, sharp as winter mornings, and the suggestion of woodsmoke that made him think of hearths and hands warmed over mugs. The shelves were spaced farther apart. The floorboards creaked less. Even the objects, arranged in careful clusters rather than crowded displays, looked as though they had been given room to breathe.

Rowan moved slowly, conscious of the muffled sound of his own boots, the weight of his own presence. The rational part of him stubbornly tried to insist this was still only a shop. An odd one, certainly. An antique department store with a flair for the uncanny. Coincidences happened. People lost scarves and snow globes and tin soldiers all the time.

But the tree stand had been his dogmatic undoing, if he was honest. Not because tree stands were rare, but because the memory attached to it had come up unbidden, full and vivid. Thomas’s voice, the cold bite of air in Rowan’s nostrils, the soft sawdust that had clung to Thomas’s gloves. Rowan had touched iron and felt a winter that wasn’t this one, one from his past.

He turned a corner and found a small table set with fewer items than the one near the entrance. A single picture frame stood at its center, the glass polished to a clear shine.

Inside the frame was a photograph, one Rowan’s heart recognized before his brain could finish processing it.

The photo was not a generic Christmas scene, not something that could have been just anyone’s. The three figures in it were too familiar, too specific, their faces caught mid-laugh with the careless honesty of people who didn’t know they were being recorded for posterity.

Thomas Ridley sat in an armchair by a Christmas tree that was slightly crooked at the top. Maren leaned against the chair, one hand on the armrest, her head tipped toward Thomas as if she’d just told him something and was waiting for his reaction. And Rowan… Rowan was there, perched on the edge of the couch with his knees pulled up, holding a candy cane like a ridiculous mustache, his grin wide enough to look genuine instead of posed.

He stared at the photograph until his eyes stung.

Rowan reached out as though to touch the glass, then stopped himself at the last moment, palm hovering above the frame. He felt the absurd, immediate fear that he might smudge the surface and ruin the moment inside, as if the laughter were printed on wet paint and could be disturbed.

He didn’t remember taking this photo… That wasn’t quite true. He remembered the moment, not the image. He remembered Thomas insisting they take one “for the album,” and Maren rolling her eyes but standing still anyway. He remembered the flash. He remembered the way he’d felt afterwards, warm and foolish and wholly safe.

What he didn’t remember was what became of the photograph.

A quiet thought slid in, unwelcome and undeniable: It didn’t become yours.

Rowan’s throat tightened. He picked up the frame carefully, lifted it, turned it over. On the back, written in neat handwriting, were three names and a date. The names were simple: Maren, Rowan, Dad. The date was from a Christmas almost two decades ago.

Rowan set the frame down as though it were fragile enough to crack in his hands. So it had existed. It had been kept. But not by him.

He wandered onward.

On the next shelf, arranged as if part of a small, quiet exhibit, lay a stack of envelopes tied together with twine. They weren’t addressed. There were no stamps. Just thick cream paper, edges slightly curled. Beside them sat a pen in a brass holder, its nib bright.

Rowan didn’t touch the envelopes. The sight of them made his palms sweat anyway.

He had written letters before… half-started things that never made it into the world. Drafts that were too raw to send, too heavy to commit to, too honest to risk being read. He’d left one on his desk once for months, meaning to finish it, each day convinced the next day would be the one. Eventually he’d thrown it away. He didn’t remember what he’d written, only the feeling in his chest as he’d watched the paper disappear into the trash: relief, and then immediately, shame.

Rowan backed away from the shelf.

A few steps later he found himself staring at a familiar book without meaning to. It sat open on a lectern, as though someone had been reading it and simply stepped away. The title was embossed in faded gold: A Visit from St. Nicholas. It wasn’t the Ridley copy. The cover was a different shade of green, the lettering a different style, the binding newer than the one he remembered.

But on the page displayed, a small section of text had been underlined in pencil. The line was simple, almost childish in its rhythm.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work…

Rowan’s breath caught. He read it again, then again, as if the meaning might change.

He spoke not a word…

Rowan thought of all the times he’d swallowed words because they felt too large to be spoken. All the times he’d decided silence was safer than saying the wrong thing. He’d told himself it was kindness: to not burden people, to not make a mess, to not impose.

But sometimes silence wasn’t kindness. Sometimes it was the opposite.

He turned away from the lectern and found Silas watching him from the end of the aisle.

The shopkeep didn’t look as though he’d been standing there long. He had that quiet quality of appearing without disturbance, like awakening from a pleasant dream. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him. His face was calm in a way Rowan found both comforting and slightly unsettling, as if Silas knew the shape of what Rowan was thinking before Rowan did.

Rowan straightened. “I didn’t realize…” He stopped, because he didn’t know what he meant to say. I didn’t realize this place existed. I didn’t realize you were watching. I didn’t realize how much I’ve been avoiding.

Silas’s gaze shifted to the photograph on the table behind Rowan. He did not point. He did not smile knowingly. He simply looked, as though acknowledging a candle burning in the corner.

“People think,” Silas said gently, “that losing a thing means it’s gone.”

Rowan’s mouth felt dry. “Doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” Silas tilted his head slightly. “Sometimes it’s only misplaced.”

Rowan’s laugh came out thin. “That feels generous.”

Silas did not contradict him. Instead he asked, quietly, “Have you been generous with yourself, Rowan Monaghan?”

There were a hundred answers Rowan could have given, none of them true in any comforting way. He was generous to others, or tried to be. He was generous with excuses. With distance. With silence. But… generous with himself? He didn’t know what that would even look like.

Silas seemed to accept Rowan’s inability to reply as an answer in itself. “You’ve carried your guilt for a long time,” he said, still mild, as though commenting on the weather. “Perhaps because it’s hardest to put down the things which you yourself picked up.”

“You don’t know that.”

Silas’s eyes softened, but his voice remained steady. “I know what this place collects.”

“And what does it collect?”

Silas glanced along the shelves. “What slips away,” he said. “What’s set down and not picked back up. What’s left behind because the hands carrying it were tired.”

The words landed quietly, but they landed. Rowan looked down at his own hands, pulling them from his coat pockets, fingers still curled around nothing.

Silas took a small step closer, stopping at a distance that felt deliberately respectful. “Some people leave,” he said, “not because they’re unwelcome, but because they’re afraid of how much they want to stay.”

Rowan continued to stare at his hands as Silas’s words sunk in. The words reached back into years he’d never properly examined and tugged on a thread that tightened around his chest.

He remembered leaving for college and feeling the giddy kind of freedom that comes from new streets, new faces, new rooms where no one knew him. He remembered coming back the first Christmas afterward and finding the Ridley living room unchanged, the tree in the corner, Thomas still calling him “lad” with the same easy affection.

He remembered how good that felt. And how frightened, in some private place, he’d been of wanting it. Of needing it.

He remembered telling himself he shouldn’t become too attached. That he was only a guest, and had only ever been. That he had his own mother, his own life. He remembered a silent, foolish promise he’d made to himself: that he wouldn’t lean too hard on what wasn’t technically his. He remembered keeping that promise even when it hurt.

After college, he’d visited less. Not because the Ridleys asked him not to come. Not because Maren shut him out. Simply because each visit made him feel how much he’d missed, and that feeling was sharp enough to cut.

So he stayed away. A year became two. Two became… more.

Maren had called sometimes, early on. Texts, too. Little updates. Silly photos. Look what Mum found in the attic. Do you remember this? Are you coming home this year?

Rowan had answered, just not with the same warmth, not with the same immediacy. He’d told himself he was busy, that he’d call later, that he’d make it up in person when he had more time. Time, of course, had never arrived in a neat package.

Then Thomas grew ill. Rowan learned about it in fragments. He knew there were appointments. He knew there were scans. He knew Maren’s voice sounded tired on the phone.

He had meant to visit. He had meant a great many things.

When the call came, and he could still hear that call if the room was quiet enough, Rowan had promised he’d be there. He’d said it without thinking, because it was what a person should say in that situation. And he believed, in that moment, that he meant it. Then… he’d returned to his life and let the world swallow his intention. Work, plans, the logistics, the dreadful, numbing delay between grief and action, the way time kept moving even when something essential had stopped.

And then it was too late.

Rowan’s vision blurred. He blinked hard and realized he’d been standing still for longer than he thought. Silas remained in front of him, patient as the falling snow.

“I should have…” Rowan began, but his voice failed on the edge of the rest of the sentence.

Silas nodded once, slow and careful. “Yes,” he said, not harshly. “You should have.”

Rowan felt heat rise in his face. He waited for judgment, for condemnation. For the kind of moral weight his own mind insisted he deserved.

But Silas’s expression did not sharpen. Instead it held something like compassion, and something like insistence.

“Tell me,” Silas asked, “when you think of Maren Ridley… what do you fear most?”

Rowan stared at him. The question was unfairly simple, and he knew the answer at once.

“That she’s done. That she’s done with me,” Rowan whispered.

Silas did not react as though this was dramatic. He treated it as a fact Rowan had been carrying, heavy and quiet.

“And… what if she isn’t?” Silas asked.

Rowan shook his head. “I don’t know how to find out.”

Silas’s gaze flicked toward a shelf behind Rowan. “Sometimes,” he said, “we don’t find out by asking a question. We find out by choosing a different way of being.”

Rowan wanted to argue. He wanted to insist he was trying. He wanted to insist it wasn’t that simple.

But it was that simple, in the way the hardest truths often were: he had to show up. Not perfectly. Not grandly. Just… at all.

Silas stepped aside slightly, giving Rowan the aisle again. “Keep going,” he said. “You’re closer than you think.”

Rowan hesitated, then moved forward, passing Silas as though passing a signpost rather than a person. The shelves ahead were fewer now, arranged in smaller groupings. The store felt less like a maze and more like a path. He stopped at a small shelf where a single item rested on a folded square of cloth: a familiar watch, the kind with a compass.

Rowan’s chest tightened again. Not because he recognized it in precise detail, because he couldn’t have described it from memory. He recognized the feeling attached to it: his mother’s hand closing around his wrist as she’d fastened the strap, her tired smile softening, her voice saying something like, There. Now you’ll always know when and where you are.

He didn’t pick it up. Not yet. The watch felt like something he wasn’t ready to face, not until he could speak honestly about the people he was afraid of disappointing. Rowan backed away, leaving the watch untouched.

As he moved deeper into the warm, quiet heart of Morrow & Reed, the thoughts of the photograph and the scarf and the tree stand trailed behind him, at the back of his mind. They were invisible reminders. Proof that he had belonged once. Proof that he had been kept in someone’s memory.

He still didn’t know what Maren felt. He still didn’t know what words would be enough. He still didn’t know if the gift he sought could carry all the meaning he wanted it to. But for the first time that night, Rowan Monaghan understood the shape of his own fear, and the shape of the choice waiting on the other side of it.

He took one more step forward, into the quieter corner Silas had promised, and let the store’s lamplight gather around him like a held breath, like the pause before a story turns.

The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 2

A soft bell chimed overhead as Rowan stepped inside, the sound warm and round, as if struck by a practiced hand rather than the jostling of a door. The air was rich with the scent of cedar and old paper, the kind of smell that made him think of attics and winter trunks and things kept for reasons no one could quite articulate. He was still brushing the snow from his coat when his eye caught on a heavy, cast-iron tree stand resting at the foot of a display table toward the back of the store. It had deep green enamel and a holly-leaf pattern worn smooth with age. The sight tugged at something in him, a half-memory rising and fading before he could grasp its shape.

“Good evening,” a warm voice offered.

Rowan turned. Behind a counter nearly hidden amongst the myriad display cases, bookshelves, and tables stood a man with silver-threaded hair and a vest that seemed a deliberate nod to some older era, though he wore it with an ease that resisted nostalgia. His eyes were calm, quietly perceptive without probing. “Welcome to Morrow & Reed. I’m Silas,” he said with a small incline of his head. “Please browse as long as you like. Should you need help, you have but to ask.”

Rowan murmured his thanks, grateful for the invitation and the lack of questions. He stepped deeper into the golden lamplight of the nearest aisle, resisting the urge to glance back at the tree stand. He’d come with a purpose. Best to begin with the books.

Rowan moved slowly down the first aisle, the shelves rising above him like quiet sentinels. Books lined them shoulder to shoulder, their leather spines softened by time, gilt titles dulled to a whisper. The paperbacks were yellowed and bowed as though they had been read too many times in too little light. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his boots, not in complaint, but acknowledgment.

He told himself to focus.

Children’s literature seemed the most obvious place to begin. He trailed a finger along the shelf labels until he found Verse, Seasonal, Classics, then pulled down the first promising volume. “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” published sometime in the middle of the last century. The illustrations were charming enough, all rosy-cheeked children and round-bellied saints, but the book was too pristine, its spine stiff, its pages barely broken in. He returned it to its place.

The next copy was older, its cloth cover frayed at the corners, but when he opened it, the pages crackled sharply, unused. Another was bound in leather so dark it was nearly black, its lettering ornate to the point of severity. Rowan shook his head. That wasn’t it either.

He began to feel foolish, standing there splitting hairs over a poem that was, at its heart, the same no matter the binding. And yet, somehow, he knew. He knew what he was looking for. He could picture the weight of it in his hands, the way the cover bowed slightly inward, as though it had learned the shape of being held.

After several minutes, he closed the last book with a quiet sigh and leaned back against the shelf.

“Not so easy,” he murmured. The heating vents in the store purred on at that moment, as if exhaling in agreement with him.

He wandered on, letting the shelves guide him rather than any clear intention. Somewhere behind him, he heard the faint scrape of wood on wood. Perhaps it was the shopkeep (what did he say his name was? Silas?) adjusting a chair or opening a drawer, but the sound never came closer. Rowan was grateful for the space.

Near the end of the aisle, a low display caught his eye. It held a small assortment of objects that didn’t immediately announce their purpose: a brass compass, its glass clouded; a child’s music box, its lid chipped; a folded scarf, red yarn dulled by wear.

Rowan slowed.

The scarf was unmistakable now that he was closer. Too small for an adult, knitted unevenly, the stitches tighter at one end than the other. He reached out before he could stop himself, brushing the fabric lightly with his fingertips.

Maren had been ten, maybe eleven. She’d learned to knit that winter, determined to make something “useful” rather than decorative. The scarf had been too short even then, scratchy as anything, but Rowan had worn it every time it snowed until Helen finally insisted he let her wash it.

“You’ll ruin it,” Maren had protested.

“It’s already ruined,” Rowan had said, grinning.

He pulled his hand back as though stung.

That scarf had been lost years ago. Left behind during a move. Or perhaps donated by mistake. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it, only that one winter it simply hadn’t been there anymore. He straightened, heart thudding a little harder than before, and forced himself to move on.

Further along, tucked between two bookcases, sat a narrow worktable. On it lay a small wooden bird, pale and unfinished. One wing had been carefully shaped, smooth beneath the light; the other was little more than a suggestion, rough with tool marks.

Rowan swallowed.

Thomas had shown him how to carve that bird one afternoon after school, spreading newspapers across the kitchen table and setting a small block of wood between them. Rowan had been impatient, his hands clumsy around the knife.

“Slow down,” Thomas had said, smiling. “The bird’s not going anywhere.”

Rowan had nodded, tried again, failed again. Eventually, he’d set the piece aside in frustration.

“I’ll finish it later,” he’d promised.

Thomas had nodded as though that were enough.

Rowan had never finished it.

He stepped back from the table, pulse quickening now, unease creeping in alongside the warmth. Coincidence, he told himself. The world was full of unfinished projects. Full of red scarves and half-carved birds and people who left things behind.

He turned the corner into the next aisle.

The snow globe was impossible to miss. It sat on a small pedestal, its glass dome slightly cracked at the base, the liquid inside faintly clouded. A miniature house stood within, crooked chimney capped with snow, a pine tree leaning just a little to one side.

Helen had given it to him one Christmas when his mother was working a double shift. Rowan had dropped it years later during an argument with Maren. The argument was nothing terrible, nothing worth remembering the details of, but he remembered the sound the globe made when it hit the floor. Remembered how Maren had gone quiet afterward.

“You didn’t have to bring it,” she’d said, too carefully.

He hadn’t known what to say then, either.

Rowan rubbed his palms against his coat, grounding himself, and moved on more quickly now, as though momentum might protect him from whatever pattern was forming.

He nearly collided with a small crate placed at the end of the aisle. Inside it, among a jumble of objects, stood a tin soldier, its paint chipped, one drumstick missing.

A laugh escaped him before he could help it, soft, surprised, and gone almost immediately.

He and Maren had spent hours one winter night inventing stories for that soldier during a power outage, turning him into a hero, a fool, a villain redeemed at the last moment. When the drumstick broke off, Rowan had wanted to throw it away.

“It’s still a soldier,” Maren had said, offended. “Just a quieter one.”

Rowan closed his eyes briefly.

He felt as though he were walking through a dream stitched together from pieces of his own life, and yet everything here was solid beneath his fingers, real beneath the soft glow of the overhead lamps.

“You find what you were looking for?” Silas’s voice came from nearby, the same gentleness and tranquility in it as with his first greeting.

Rowan turned. The shopkeep stood a few steps away, hands folded loosely, expression open but unreadable.

“I...” Rowan hesitated, then shook his head. “Not yet.”

Silas nodded as though this were expected. “Sometimes what we look for is shy,” he said mildly. “It prefers to be sought rather than found.”

Rowan gave a faint, humorless smile. “I’ve been doing plenty of seeking.”

“So it seems,” Silas said. His gaze flicked, not pointedly, but observantly, toward the shelves Rowan had just passed. “Take your time.” With that, he moved away again, leaving Rowan alone with the quiet and his thoughts.

Rowan exhaled slowly again. He hadn’t meant to wander this far. He hadn’t meant to linger. And yet, here he was, surrounded by evidence of a life he’d stepped away from piece by piece.

At the far end of the store, partially obscured by a tall bookcase, he noticed something heavy leaning against the wall. He approached it cautiously. He realized as it came into view that it was the Christmas tree stand he’d seen from the entrance.

The stand was old-fashioned, cast iron, painted a deep green. The tightening screws were worn smooth, the enamel chipped in places where hands had gripped it year after year.

Thomas had taken him out alone that year. Maren had been sick, curled under blankets with a book, disappointed but resigned.

“Just us this time,” Thomas had said, clapping Rowan on the shoulder.

They’d trudged through snow to the edge of a small lot outside town, breath puffing, boots crunching. Thomas had let Rowan choose the tree (a little crooked, but sturdy) and had shown him how to secure it in the stand back home.

“Doesn’t have to be perfect,” Thomas had said. “Just has to stand.”

Rowan reached out and rested his hand briefly on the cool metal.

His chest tightened, not with pain exactly, but with something heavier, recognition, perhaps. Or regret, more likely. He straightened abruptly, suddenly aware that he was very tired.

He drifted back toward the front of the store, unsure what else to do. The bell over the door was visible now, the outside world just beyond it. Snowy, lamplit Pinebridge was waiting.

Maybe he should go. Maybe he should try again tomorrow.

Silas appeared beside the counter, as if summoned by the thought.

“Leaving already?” he asked kindly.

“I don’t think what I’m looking for is here,” Rowan said, though even as he spoke the words, they rang false.

Silas studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly toward a narrower aisle Rowan hadn’t noticed before. The light there was softer somehow, warmer.

“You’re welcome to look a little deeper,” Silas said. “Some things keep to the quieter corners.”

Rowan hesitated. Then, slowly, he turned toward the aisle and took a step forward, the shelves closing around him like the turning of a page.

The Department Store of Lost Things, Stave 1

Rowan Monaghan drifted down the familiar brick sidewalks of Pinebridge as if wandering through an old photograph, the kind faded at the corners from years of handling. A light snow fell in soft, lazy spirals, gathering along the storefronts he used to race past as a boy, back when Christmas Eve meant warm lights and open doors. The streetlamps began switching on as he walked, their glow exactly as he remembered: golden halos barely visible against the ochre of the dusky horizon. For a moment he could almost pretend nothing had changed. But memory had a way of warming the air and chilling the heart all at once, and Rowan felt the tug of both as he wandered, waiting for his mother to finish her shift, wishing he knew how to mend the years that had slipped away.

He checked his phone. No new messages. His mother would still be at the hospital, and given the time, would likely be there until well past seven. Christmas Eve for an ER nurse was rarely a courteously quiet night. When he was young, he’d wait for her by the living room window of their tiny house. He’d press his forehead to the glass, which was only slightly less cold than the small icicles hanging from the gutters, and try to guess from footfalls on the sidewalk whether his mother had finally come home. At that age, Pinebridge’s winter nights felt too wide, as though they were holding more silence than should be allotted at what should have been a joyous time of year.

Now, at thirty, he didn’t wait at windows anymore. He walked.

He passed the old bakery, the one that still made gingerbread men with googly-eye candy. It was run by someone new these days, but the sign was the same: a wooden plaque carved into the shape of steaming loaves of bread. Light glowed warmly through the front windows and spilled across the sidewalk. It made the snowflakes dance, momentarily bright before vanishing.

Two children hurried by him, one dragging the other by a mittened hand, both wearing coats a size too big. Their father trailed behind them with a paper bag of last-minute purchases and the weary patience of a man trying to preserve holiday cheer by sheer force of will. Rowan stepped aside to let them pass. He found himself smiling a little, then immediately felt slightly foolish for it.

At the end of Main Street, Rowan stopped. If he turned left here and went all the way up the walk, following the gentle rise framed by leafless but fully decorated old maples, he’d eventually reach the Ridley house. He could picture the porch light, warm against the snow, illuminating the wreath with pinecones the size of his fist, hung on the door by Mrs. Ridley (Helen to her friends). And there, head pressed against the windowpane, Maren’s silhouette could just be made out through the slight frost on the outside.

He did not turn left. He stayed where he was.

Standing there, the wind carried a thread of music to his ears, barely audible. It wasn’t until he heard the faint rise of voices, a mingling of young and old, high and low, that Rowan realized carolers must be out tonight. He glanced toward the town square. The sound was coming from that direction, like a steady pulse of warmth to help fend off the growing chill. The music tugged at him, gentle but insistent.

He walked toward it.

Pinebridge’s small town square looked just as it had when he was young: the old fountain wrapped in evergreen boughs, benches lightly dusted with snow, a scattering of families bundled in coats and scarves. A group of carolers stood near the fountain, their songbooks lifted toward the lamplight as the last glow of the setting sun retreated beyond the horizon. The harmonies floated across the space in soft waves, only slightly warbled by the increasing intensity of the falling snow.

Beside them stood a thin man with a well-worn book in his hands. His hair was nearly white beneath a wool cap, and he adjusted his stylish muffler so that his face was well-exposed. A half-circle of children sat at his feet in the thin snow, fidgeting, eager to hear what the man had to say.

The carolers finished their song, their breath pluming in the air. A smattering of applause drifted through the square. The man with the book cleared his throat. It barely made a sound, but was enough to turn everyone’s heads toward him, immediately paying attention.

“Well now,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “We’ve sung our carols, haven’t we? I think that earns us a tale.” Several children wriggled in evident approval. One boy bounced impatiently on his knees.

The man withdrew a pair of small, round spectacles from his coat pocket, put them on, then held the book up so that the crowd could clearly see it. Its cover, dark green cloth worn smooth at the edges, shimmered in the lamplight.

“I thought,” he said, “that tonight might be just the night for an old classic.”

He opened the book to the first page and began to read, his voice carrying nearly-forgotten words in an immediately familiar cadence:

“‘Twas the night before Christmas…”

Rowan’s breath hitched as his eyes closed.

In an instant, he was in the Ridleys’ living room again. He could smell the pine of the Christmas tree, sharp and comforting; hear the soft crackle of logs in the fireplace; sense the warmth of Maren’s father Thomas presence beside him on the couch. Maren, sprawled on the rug, would always begin by making faces at the rhyming couplets, only to end up mouthing them along by the poem’s midpoint. Mrs. Ridley would slip into the room with cocoa, passing mugs that steamed in the cozy firelight.

And Rowan, small, awkward, uncertain, had felt, for reasons he didn’t fully understand at the time, like he belonged.

Thomas Ridley was the one who’d made space for him. That first Christmas in Pinebridge, his mom working late, Maren had invited him to spend the first part of Christmas Eve with them, at least until his mom got home. So he’d gone over there, but wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He wound up standing somewhere in between the front of the Christmas tree and the fireplace, his hands thrust into his pockets, not really knowing what Christmas Eve was actually all about.

“Come on, lad,” Thomas had murmured, shifting to give Rowan a spot on the couch. “No sense perching there like a bird on a wire.”

The memory struck with its familiarity. He felt it in his chest, sudden and sharp.

He had forgotten how the original book looked, until now. Green cover, gold lettering faded around the edges, the spine soft from decades of use. Maren had once dropped it on the hearth, probably his second or third Christmas in Pinebridge. Rowan remembered the little nick on the corner. Eventually, years later, the book had fallen apart altogether. Thomas had held the pieces in his hands and shaken his head with fond resignation.

“Guess that’s what happens when you love something a little too hard.”

Rowan blinked back to the present as the storyteller reached the final lines.

“…and to all a good night!”

The crowd applauded. The children hopped up, shaking snow from their coats. Parents tugged mittens back onto impatient hands. The carolers began to gather their things. Rowan remained where he stood, feeling the last chord of the memory thrumming in his chest.

He could find that book for Maren. He should find that book for Maren.

Not the original, of course. The Ridleys’ copy was long gone, but one as much like it as possible. Old. Soft-edged. Lived-in. Something that carried the quiet gravity of winters past. Something that could say everything he hadn’t been able to tell Maren.

I remember your dad. I remember sitting in your home. I remember being part of something good.

The idea arrived with such clarity that it startled him.

He took a step backward, away from the crowd. The storyteller snapped the book shut and tucked it beneath his arm. For a moment, just a moment, he glanced in Rowan’s direction. The man’s eyes were shadowed beneath the brim of his cap, but they seemed gentle, knowing, in a way Rowan couldn’t quite place. Rowan turned away before their gazes could meet fully.

The square emptied slowly, leaving only footprints that were beginning to fill in as the snow became more insistent. Rowan stood for another moment, letting the air settle around him. Then he walked on.

Page Turners, the local bookshop, was closed; the sign in the window clearly said so. Still, Rowan stopped in front of it and peered in. The shelves were still lit. A stack of children’s books, some old, most not, sat arranged in a neat display. A glance was all it took to confirm his intuition: the book he was looking for was not the sort that regular stores kept in stock.

Snow gathered on his coat collar. Rowan brushed it away and let out a slow, uneven breath. Maybe he should go back toward the hospital instead; his mom’s shift would end eventually, and she’d ask where he’d been wandering in the cold.

The memories evoked by the recitation lingered, though… the warmth of the Ridleys’ living room, the look of the book, the timbre of Thomas’s voice. And beneath that memory, deeper and quieter, lay everything he had avoided since the funeral he hadn’t attended.

He should have been there.

The thought came with its usual bite. He deserved it.

He crossed the street, brushing snow from his collar again, and drifted toward a narrow lane between the old bakery and a stationery shop. He didn’t remember the lane being there, not as a child, not as a teenager, and downtown Pinebridge was the sort of place where everything stayed exactly where you left it. Yet tonight, the space yawned quietly, a slim corridor of warm lamplight and deep shadow. Halfway down the lane was what appeared to be the entrance to store Rowan hadn’t heard of. A sign with aged brass lettering above the door read Morrow & Reed — Antiquarian Curios. He’d walked this way a hundred times, maybe more, but he had never seen that sign, never noticed the way the windows tucked themselves back from the street, their displays dim and inviting, like an unspoken secret.

A faint glow spilled from within, soft, golden, its warmth offering proof against the cold. Rowan hesitated at the mouth of the lane, listening to the hush of the snowfall and the distant hum coming from those dwindling out of square. He wasn’t sure why the sight of the little shop made something in him loosen, like a knot pulled gently free, but it did. Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a single step forward, toward the old-fashioned door with its burnished brass handle, wondering how a place he had never seen could feel like it had been waiting for him.

My Year In Books (2024 Edition)

 

Finally back to reading and then posting about it!

Gosh, it's been so long since I've done this that I've almost forgotten what I'm supposed to do! Luckily for me, the graphic helps, as does the last entry in this series (from three years ago!).

I had a goal of reading 24 books in 2024. At this point, I can't recall why I set that as the goal, since it's below my mean and median reading quantities. In any case, I manage to just push past that with a final count of 51 books, totaling 16,394 pages (according to goodreads.com). The real number, by my spreadsheet, is actually 50, and a total page count of 16,074. I'll be using the latter numbers for the purposes of analysis.

Five Stars

This year, I rated 12 books as 5 stars. Here's the list (ordered by date read) and a quick blurb about each of them.

[secret novel beta read], by Matt Carson

Oops, I can't actually tell you anything about this one, sorry! However, ff you're an agent or publisher, Matt's still querying, and you'd be well-served to give him a moment. 

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

I think this marks my third time reading this book, and I did so very early in the year before the SA allegations came to light. I won't comment any further on the author, but will say that I won't be able to bring myself to read it again unless something changes.

Severance - The Lexington Letter, by Anonymous

This isn't actually a book; it's supplemental content for the excellent Apple TV series Severance. I highly recommend both, but start with the TV series (otherwise the supplement might not make as much sense, nor be worthy of 5 stars).

Heroes: Mortals and Monsters, Quests and Adventures, by Stephen Fry

The second entry in Stephen Fry's Great Mythology series, and it's just as well-written and entertaining as the first. If you're into audiobooks, these are read by the author, and he is a great writer and reader. You should definitely read both!

The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark, by Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan

There's a large part of me that wishes Carl Sagan had lived to see where we've made it to as the human race, and a smaller part of me that cringes at the notion. This book was released in 1995 and I'm astounded at how well it describes what's happened in the years between. Sagan was a brilliant mind and a fantastic writer, and you should read this book.

The Only Pirate at the Party, by Lindsay Sterling and Brooke S. Passey

If you're a Lindsey Stirling fan, this book is essential reading. It's eight years old at this point, but offers an excellent insight into who she was at the time of publishing and how she became that person. It's simply and wonderfully written by her and her sister, and definitely worth picking up in general.

Misquoting Jesus: The Story Behind Who Changed the Bible and Why, by Bart Ehrman

The way mythology emerges has been and continues to be fascinating to me. How the Christian Bible got to be the book it is today is explained in layman's terms in this book, and it's a bit of a wild ride. If you're a history buff, especially the religious history type, this book is definitely for you.

Cowpuppy: An Unexpected Friendship and a Scientist’s Journey into the Secret World of Cows, by Gregory Berns

I actually reviewed this on goodreads, so I'll copy/paste that review here:

I received an advanced reader copy of Cowpuppy from Harper Horizon (via a Goodreads giveaway).

What a fantastic and well-written book, especially for those interested in a little science and a little narrative about the secret life of zebus and new cattlefolk! I grew up adjacent to cows (small-town Texas, although my family didn't own livestock), and while I was no stranger to cattle, I had no idea of how little I (and humans generally) actually knew about them. I highly recommend this book if you're curious about herd animal lives and interactions in a microcosm, and how a scientist made the transition from deliberate clinical lab work to accidental/incidental field lab work!

Empire of Silence, by Christopher Ruocchio

This is the first in a series of sci-fi books, told in a memoir style by the main character. There's a lot (the book is over 700 pages long), so I encourage you to read the synopsis on goodreads. Pick this one up if you're looking for an epic sci-fi book in a (nearly finished) series.

The Elements of Style [Illustrated], by William Strunk Jr., E.B.White, and Maira Kalman (Illustrator)

The content of this book is essential for anyone that wants to write well. The illustrations add a level of delight!

Solaris, by Stanislaw Lem (Bill Johnson, translator) 

If you want a well-written collection of observations about human nature (and perhaps its limitations) packaged up in a sci-fi setting, this book is a great one. I can only vouch for this specific translation, however.

A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens

I read this book every year, but this year, after watching The Man Who Invented Christmas, I wound up buying a Manuscript edition. Seeing the "original prints" next to the typed words, with the scratches and edits, is pretty fantastic for a guy that used to write in spiral notebooks with Bic pens...

Facts and Figures

OK, let's get some dang METRICS up in here!

This table brought to you by Microsoft PowerPoint!

Interesting that the median was so much lower than the mean. Seems like my weightier books must've been pretty dang weighty! In fact, the top five books by page count sum to 3,324 pages. So, roughly 10% of my books made up 20% of my pages!

Given that, what's the distribution of books (and pages) over the months of the year?

This chart brought to you by ChatGPT!

Once again, I find myself finishing books in a diminishing manner through April and May, then picking up over the summer while spiking in the autumn. It's a little surprising that I finished so many short books at the beginning of the year. The October binge is something not completely uncommon, but it seems this year I was unexpectedly inspired!

I was even more surprised to see the diversity by genre!

This chart brought to you by Apple Numbers!

I was all over the place this year! Fantasy dominated, followed by sci-fi, but there were also respectable appearances by non-fiction, fiction, and short stories. I used more categories this year, as it felt appropriate. If I were to group all of the smaller non-fictional categories into non-fiction, the total would have been 13, or 26%. That's a considerable amount given my penchant for escapism!

As to how I read books this year, the majority were consumed via my ears.

This chart brought to you by Microsoft Excel (online)!

I'm glad to say that I read more books with my eyes than my ears this year, and for the first time in a long time, I read more printed books than ebooks. Part of that was due to the fact that I had several books on my shelf that I decided had gone too long unread, so I remedied that. In addition, I won several giveaways from goodreads this year (more on that later), and tried to get through some of those as well. The result was that I had a book or device in hand more often than buds in ears, which... might also mean I wasn't working out in the mornings as much as I usually do (since that's when I listen to books, primarily). This is probably also true, as I was injured a lot this year, because I'm getting old and broken. (Sidebar: I was really fortunate this year to get some fantastic physical therapy, and am trying earnestly to get better.) All of that to say: expect more audio next year!

Goodreads Giveaways

I should take a moment to mention that I had forgotten about Goodreads giveaways but was reminded of it again this year. When I enter, I leverage the following strategy:

1. Filter the giveaways by "Ending", so that you see things that are ending the in the next few hours first.
2. Filter by "Print Only", since receiving a book in the mail is pretty dang cool!
3. Look for entries where the ratio of available copies to current entries is "favorable."

I deliberately do NOT try to limit to genres in which I'm interested, as having an unfiltered genre field is an easy way to find other writers and other genres that I might like. The ratio mentioned above that I look for is generally anything that's better than a 1 in 50 chance of winning. For example, if there are 50 copies in a giveaway, and the number of entries is around 2,500, I would enter the giveaway. Using that approach, I managed to win 7 giveaways this year, and read 4 of them. (Sidebar: you should also enter giveaways for books that you actually want -- after all, SOMEONE wins those things too!)

Here's the rub, though. Since I don't filter by genre or target audience, one of the books I won was a complete miss for me, so far outside my pleasure that I decided not to rate it. Two of the other books were good (3 stars) -- one of them had fantastic writing, but I didn't care for the subject matter, while the other was insightful but not engaging. The last one was Cowpuppy (mentioned above), which was an unexpected 5-star from me, and made the entire exercise worthwhile!

Conclusion

It's good to be back reading a bunch and writing a little. Hopefully this summary will inspire you, gentle reader, to continue finding and indulging in things you enjoy! I suspect we could all use a little more joy in our lives! To that end, let me know how your year went, or if you're interested in other metrics/topics that I used to cover but didn't this year. Happy reading (or whatever floats your boat, so to speak)!

The Hushed Hearth, Stave 5

Stave 1 : Stave 2 : Stave 3 : Stave 4 : Stave 5

Courtesy Kennebunkport Inn/Nicole Wolf

Erin and Riley were awakened by light streaming in through the open curtains and a low rumbling from the street outside and below gently rattling the window. Sitting up, Riley looked out the window.

“Looks like Brynn Wilson is plowing Main Street,” Riley said, leaning back against the headboard as Erin stretched over him to get a view for herself.

“And it’s sunny! A Merry White and Bright Christmas to you, honey!” she said, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him.

“Mrry Chrsms, hny,” he replied without withdrawing from the kiss.

She finally pulled away and, stretching, said “I slept great! Snug as a bug! I wonder how everyone else slept? Did the heater kick on?

Riley flipped the switch on the bedside lamp. It clicked, but didn’t turn on. “I’m not sure the power’s on, but maybe it was for a bit…?”

Erin was already up and out of bed, reaching back long enough to grab Riley’s hand and pull him towards the edge of the bed. “Let’s check on our guests!”

“I wonder if Maud slept at all,” Riley mused, climbing out of bed much more slowly than Erin. “We didn’t actually turn down a room for her.”

“I’ll check!” Erin said, slippers already on her feet as she left the bedroom for the hallway. After a quick splash of water on his face, he joined Erin where she was already putting her ear to the door of Room Six, having presumably listened at Room Seven and heard nothing of note. A moment later, she shrugged and moved on to Room Five. Her brows knit together as she opened the door. She only took a moment to peek in.

“Empty,” she said, a slightly puzzled tone in her voice. She pushed past Riley back to Room Six, peeked, then repeated the exercise on Room Seven. “All empty! I could have sworn I heard some shuffling of some sort on this floor during the night.”

Riley looked into Room Seven as well. Everything looked neat as a pin (or neat as a button, depending on your emphasis). Then it hit him.

“Apparently Maud was up here at some point last night. We didn’t turn this room down originally,” Riley said. He and Erin took one more look at the other rooms and found them all in the same neat state. None of the rooms appeared to have been stayed in.

“I guess she stayed on the first floor with the others. Let’s go see!” Erin said as she headed down the stairs, Riley in tow. “Who was where?” she asked, using her best stage whisper voice as they approached Room One.

“Skyler Mills was here, and the Fosters were in Room Three.”

Erin knocked lightly on the door. “Skyler? Are you up?” She received no response, so knocked harder and called his name more loudly, waiting a moment. Silence. Finally, she opened the door a crack, then pushed it all the way in. The room was just as empty as the ones above, also showing no signs of occupation.

Erin looked at Riley, confusion clear on her face. Riley moved down to Room Three and knocked, but didn’t wait as long as Erin had before opening the door. Room Three was also empty. He quickly checked the other two rooms as Erin went towards the dining room and kitchen.

“They’re not here either,” he heard her call from the other room. 

Riley entered the dining room as Erin emerged from the kitchen. The fire in the hearth was still burning well, and the firewood rack was still full. The room was just as spick and span as they’d left it the night before.

“The kitchen is spotless, and the wood stove is still working. It looks like someone was maintaining this stuff all night long, Rye.”

Riley crossed the lobby to the front doors, pausing only long enough to check whether or not they were locked (they weren’t). He opened the doors and stepped onto the porch, which looked as if someone had worked very hard at shoveling and sweeping. The sidewalk that led from the porch out to Main Street was completely clear of snow. Riley had just finished taking this in when a voice called to him from up the street.

“Merry Christmas Riley! And Erin!” The voice came from Brynn Wilson, who had apparently stopped his plowing long enough to wish them well.

“Merry Christmas to you, Brynn! You’ve been busy already, it looks like.”

Brynn Wilson walked up the sidewalk to shake hands with Riley and hug Erin. “Yep, well, Main Street won’t clear itself of snow, that’s for sure! Do you guys have power or something?”

“Nope, it’s still out for us,” Riley replied.

“Oh, that’s odd. I could’ve sworn I saw lights on in there while I was going by. And the way your porch is clear, I thought maybe you’d taken a hair dryer to it!” He laughed at the thought, Erin joining in. “Are you guys prepared for a chilly and powerless Christmas?”

“Actually,” Erin said, taking Riley’s arm, “we are. Is power still out everywhere?”

Brynn nodded, saying “As far as I can tell anyway. It’s definitely out on east side, and the little bit of the west I’ve got to so far looks about the same.”

“In that case,” Riley said, putting his arm around Erin’s shoulders, “and if you don’t mind, Brynn, please spread the word that the Hushed Hearth Inn is set to host anyone that wants to celebrate and needs a warm place to stay and active kitchen in which to prepare food.”

Brynn looked surprised. “Your power’s out, but your kitchen works? You got a special generator just for that?”

Riley smiled at Erin, then said, “No, but we have a huge wood stove and a top tier chef working it.”

“That… sounds like an invitation to a proper Christmas shindig! I’ll start letting folks know!”

“Thanks, Brynn. And we’ll expect to see you by lunchtime.”

“Deal! Thank you two!” Brynn said, almost jogging back to his truck. He gave the couple a wave as he climbed into the cab.

Erin and Riley stood in the morning sunlight for a moment longer, then by mutual unspoken agreement, went inside to prepare for a Christmas party.

***

By the time they had finished breakfast, the first of the townsfolk arrived with a tentative knock on the lobby-side of the hearth. Cory Hughes and his young son Toby greeted Erin and Riley, stating that Brynn Wilson had told them the inn would be a good place to go if they were a little cold, hungry, or wanted a little more company this morning. Erin ushered them to a table near the fireplace, but Toby immediately went to the tree.

“There’s no decorations,” he said, seeming confused.

Riley joined him there. “You’re right, Toby. Not a single strand of tinsel, not a star on the top… what should we do about that?”

“Well…” Toby replied, a little shyly, “I’ve got this one ornament back at the house. It’s a black and white dog dressed up like a World War I flying ace, and he’s got a little yellow bird with him. I… could…” he trailed off.

Riley glanced back at Cory, who nodded, then asked “Toby, would it be alright if you brought that ornament for the tree? I think it would go really well… here.” He pointed to a spot near the middle.

“No, I think it would go better here!” Toby replied, pointing to a place nearer the window.

“That sounds perfect. How about you run get it as soon as you’ve had a little breakfast?”

Riley had never seen a young boy eat eggs so quickly, and he had been a scrappy young boy himself at one point.

The scene repeated itself several more times. Steff Wood and her partner Hayden, then Emerson Rees (one of the older community members, although he still described himself as a “very eligible bachelor”), then Rowan Hart and family all arrived in succession. Before long, word had spread that folks should bring decorations as well as any food they’d like to prepare. By lunchtime, it was, indeed, a proper Christmas shindig, and the entire inn had been trimmed in all manner of handmade and random decorations.

Some of the last people to arrive were Blake and Kerry Foster and their children, along with another couple and children that neither Riley nor Erin recognized. They were introduced as Hector Bardin and Alexis Stone, up from New York City. Hector was a cousin of the Foster’s, which reminded Riley of part of his conversation with Reed and Elys the night before.

“Oh, so you were the houseful of guests we heard about, huh?” Blake only stared back at Riley as Hector gave him a tentative smile and nod. “We had a couple of guests here last night that said they were spill-overs from your place, Blake. Did Reed and Elys wind up going back over there?”

It was actually Hector that replied. “Did you say Reed and Elys?” Riley and Erin both nodded.

“Reed and Elys were the names of my great-great-grandparents.”

Riley and Erin both looked at each other, then back at Blake and Hector. “That’s… how they introduced themselves.” Riley went and fetched the guest book from where he’d put it back in the lobby desk. Opening it, he flipped to the last page.

Hector’s eyes widened a bit. “Skyler Mills as well?”

“Does that name ring a bell with you?” Erin asked.

“Yes,” Hector replied, “Skyler Mills was one of New England’s most noted Traveling Troubadors in the mid nineteenth century. What did they look like?” Hector asked. Riley and Erin described them all, and Hector nodded, saying, “I actually don’t know what Skyler Mills looked like, but your description of his outfit certainly fits with the style he might’ve worn. Maybe your visitor was… acting the part?”

While Riley and Erin considered this, Hector added, “What you said about Reed and Elys certainly sounds like the photos I’ve seen of them. I’m just not sure why anyone would… I don’t know, try to impersonate them? Would you mind telling me about what they said?”

Riley and Erin smiled at each other and began telling the stories from the previous evening as they, Hector, Alexis, Blake, and Kerry sat down at the round table in front of the hearth. The kids went to join some of their friends that were being entertained by another townsperson that had brought a guitar. They were singing Christmas carols to the great delight of Emerson Rees, who some of the kids were convinced was Santa Clause in disguise (mainly because he was the oldest person in the room and kept suspiciously chuckling with a distinct “Ho ho hoo!” under his breath).

The morning, afternoon, and evening saw the Hushed Hearth Inn as busy as it ever had been, and no one left without at least one special moment or memory. For many, it was Riley’s toast, which was apparently a quote from someone up through his family tree:

“To all of us gathered here today… I thank you for the friendship you have shown to us and to each other. Let us all remember today, that we were able to gather despite the weather in a place that will forever fill the role as haven for love and laughter in Whispering Fork…”

***

Three weeks later, the euphoric feeling from Christmas had not quite worn off, but Riley found himself worrying once again about the bills. They only had two weeks to come up with the balance on the lien. Business had picked up a bit, and in fact a somewhat exotic couple was currently in the dining room, having booked a room for a full week. Erin was chatting with them in her typical Erin-ish way, and seemed more animated than usual. The couple were responding in kind. A moment later, Erin was frantically waving Riley over to the table.

“Riley!” Erin said, barely containing her excitement. “Did you know that Matteo and Teresa are from Texas? Well, not originally, but that’s where they’ve lived for the past twenty years?”

“No, I don’t think I knew that. Interesting!” Riley said, turning to Matteo and Teresa. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“We just couldn’t resist staying a while in the world-famous Hushed Hearth Inn!” Teresa replied, a slight accent marking her as Eastern European, although her light hair and complexion would have fit better on someone of Scandinavian descent.

“World-famous, huh? Well now I have to ask — where in the world did you hear about us?”

Erin couldn’t contain herself any longer. “We’re in this months’ Condé Nast Traveler!”

“Condé Nast Traveler? What’s that?” asked Riley.

“Only the most important travel magazine in the northeast, if not the whole US.”

Matteo leaned over and pulled something out of his backpack. A moment later, he handed a copy of a slightly-worn magazine to Riley.

“Here you go!” he said, his accent and dark complexion marking him as likely Italian. The magazine he’d handed to Riley featured a flattering picture of the Hushed Hearth Inn from Christmas Day on the cover. The lead story was titled “The Hushed Hearth,” and the author’s byline read Hector Bardin.

Riley flipped toward the center of the magazine and began reading the article.

At the request of my illustrious editor, Alexis Stone, on the 100th anniversary of the first issue of Signature Magazine (from which emerged Condé Nast Traveler, the periodical you, dear reader, currently hold in your hands), I originally intended to write about Signature’s founding by my great-great-grandparents, Andrew Reed Foster and Katherine Elys Foster. Instead, and given the season, it seems more compelling to tell you the tale of the founding of my great-great-grandparents themselves, the story of which was uncovered during a holiday excursion to my cousin’s ranch in Whispering Fork, Connecticut.

Centrally featured in this story is the Hushed Hearth Inn, located squarely between the tines of the fork from whence the town gets its name. When tragedy struck Reed and Elys (they went by their middle names), the Hushed Hearth Inn became their second home, providing them with everything they needed to survive and thrive.

The article then detailed, in touching tribute, the story that Reed and Elys related to Riley and Erin, and then Riley and Erin had shared with Hector and Alexis. It then switched to Hector’s perspective from Christmas Day.

The current owners, Riley and Erin, carry on the family tradition with seemingly effortless grace. The entire town had been without power for all of Christmas Eve and on into Christmas Day itself. My cousin was both frantic and despondent, as most of the Christmas glory he’d planned relied on a steady supply of alternating current. However, when word reached us that a party was forming at the inn, we decided to hoof the half mile through the snow and see what the hubbub was about. 

Arriving, we were greeted by a scene straight out of a Dickens story. The outside of the inn was modestly appointed with holly garlands and evergreen wreaths smartly trimmed with simple red bows and ribbons. The interior, however, was in the process of being grandly decorated by a large but disparate group of townsfolk of all ages. A collection of mismatched tinsel, holly, and garland  was draped or hung throughout the lobby and on into the dining room. It turned out that the decorations had been brought by the townsfolk — the inn itself only providing the canvas for decorative art.

The description Hector had written of the day was touching and sentimental, capturing all that Riley had hoped everyone in town would feel and experience. The article ended with an unexpected call to action.

I have no idea what actually happened on Christmas Eve at the Hushed Hearth Inn, but I do know this: Mathilde (or Maud, if you’re more familiar) created a legacy that carries well on to this day. If you ever find yourself in need of rest and rejuvenation, warmth and welcome, fellowship and family, you would do well to reserve a room for yourself at the Hushed Hearth, and consider spending at least a week there, enjoying all that Whispering Fork has to offer.

Riley put the magazine down, then looked back to Matteo and Teresa. “Is this actually what brought you here?”

Teresa nodded vigorously. “Absolutely! We read about the inn in the magazine, then did a little research on the town on the Internet. It sounded perfect for a venture we’d like to undertake, but wanted to visit the area for a bit before committing to it fully.”

“A venture?”Erin asked. “Ooo, sounds intriguing and exciting already! We’ve lived here all our lives. What do you need to know?”

“Well,” Matteo said, slipping the magazine back into his backpack, “We’re in the antiques, art, and decor business. We’ve been looking to move to the northeast for a while now, but haven’t found quite the right place to try to start a seasonal antique market.”

“When we read about Whispering Fork, something clicked for us,” Teresa continued. “The main issue is that this is a farming community. Do you know of anyone that might be interested in selling some land that they aren’t using for anything else?”

Erin looked at Riley, who looked at the couple sitting in front of him.

“I… think we might know someone with thirty unused acres available…”