Chapter One

Grief

Calian

Twenty-One Years Later

 It should have rained.

The sun should have been blocked by dark, ominous clouds. The wind should have been hinting at something torrential to come. And the air should have been so cold I could feel numb and blame it on the weather. It really should have rained, but instead, the day was downright joyful.

It was sickening.

The summer air was fresh and clean. The breeze was gentle through my open window, and the light was blinding yet warm. Laughter could be heard just outside my apartment, but I couldn’t understand how anyone could be happy. At least, I knew I couldn’t be.

I stared at the green and purple mosaic jar that was my mother. She sat, glittering in the sunlight, taunting me with a letter I hadn’t been able to open for a week.

I paced back-and-forth, trying to build up the courage to approach the damn thing, let alone read it. I’ve done this dance for days, but each time the result was the same. I was too terrified to see it. I knew my heart would ache either way. I desperately wished to know my mother’s last words, and yet, it would break me to know that I would never get a note from her again. That I could no longer hear her voice reminding me to make sure I eat something so I didn’t die of fatigue or to stop by the shop so I could help her stock up.

Mom ran an apothecary. It was surprising how well she did in the city, all things considered. I guess more people liked home remedies than I thought. Though, I guess it helped that Mom’s cures always worked. Despite that, she still died in the shop where she helped others survive. The irony was not lost on me, and in fact, made her death all the more pitiful.

One day, a customer came in for his usual tea and found her on the ground. I was told she showed signs of overworking which caused her to just… collapse. After that, I had no choice but to close the apothecary. I sold or donated just about everything, but while I was rummaging around, I found her brown leather satchel. Inside were herbs she never left home without—sage, rosemary, mint, and chamomile—her notebook of helpful plants, candles, matches, some sort of strange coins, and the letter.

I sighed, my eyes drifting over to my bulletin board that hung just over my desk. Pinned, haphazardly, were pictures of Nova. All drawings of mine, of course. Sketches, watercolors, pastels…

She’ll never tell me another story again. I thought, and before I could gage the warning sting, I began to sob. My tears felt never-ending. Like a bottomless vat of despair. I could accept the waterworks. It was only logical, right? But the cries… the audible sound of my heart breaking was another thing entirely. Was it dumb that I found myself embarrassed of them? Maybe embarrassed wasn’t the word. Maybe I just wanted to feel numb. Hell, maybe, in a way, I already did.

After a few minutes, I shoved my round lenses into my hair as I roughly scrubbed my eyes and let out the longest, most palpable breath. It was the kind of exhale that told anyone around that you were trying to keep your shit together. Suddenly, my phone dings. It was a familiar sound. An almost lyrical whistle.

I had just received an alert from Booktrovert.

As if I was running on autopilot, I opened the app and glanced at the comments. There were hundreds of them on my latest update. They all basically said the same thing:

BookAsarusRex: OMG! I can’t believe you’re leaving us on this cliffhanger!!

FaiRees47: I know! There’s not even a date… “Until further notice” HELLO! Can we get the notice?????

isekaiME!!223: Maybe Nova will be back soon? Either way I gotta know how she breaks this curse. IDK bout you but I couldn’t live like that.

 

The messages went on and on. I swiped out of Booktrovert, refusing to reply. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only notification I received. The agent Booktrovert assigned me when I first started publishing “The Tale of Lady Nova Laurent Grimaldi” was hounding me with condolences for my loss, but in the same breath, asking how long my mourning would last. As if I could just pick a date and move on after only a week.

I ignored her too.

I only started writing Nova’s story out of a sense of desperation. I can’t fully explain it, but growing up, listening to my mom tell me bits and pieces about her, left me wanting more. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a kid without friends. I wasn’t some loner who shunned even the smallest ounce of kindness. I just… couldn’t get her out of my head. From the first time Mom said her name, I knew that I had to know more. I had to know if she would have a happy ending. But mom never gave me one. She did, however, encourage me to find one. So, I began writing, and eventually, I made a profile on Booktrovert and started publishing weekly. It’s been a little over a year now—with a hiatus or two in between as a break. I wasn’t a machine, after all.

Still, I didn’t realize when I started how many others would be so invested in her. It was nice not to feel alone, but those readers… they didn’t get it either. Not really. They were curious, but me… I’m…

I stared at the letter again. I clenched and unclenched my fists until, finally, I snatched my letter opener off my desk and opened the envelope. I briefly thought of just tearing the letter open, but the thought of missing even a single grapheme due to recklessness would have ruined me. My fingers hesitated before they delicately lifted the paper from its covering. There were two pages inside. One a handwritten letter, and the other, some sort of map. I disregard the second page for now, focusing on the first. The stinging started the second I laid eyes on her neat cursive. I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing down any chance the tears had of coming out. I didn’t need to break down again. I needed to rip the band aid off.

Calian,

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for leaving you alone in this world. I wish we had more time. I wish I could tell you even more about… everything. I’ve always been the worst kind of worrier, and ever since we moved here (even without any sign of danger or distress) I was always concerned you would see this letter and know that… I’m gone.

But that’s not what I want you to focus on. Cal, you are kind and brilliant and stronger than you know. I’m sorry I could never give you an end to Nova’s story. It’s not something I can do, but I know you can. So, I’m leaving you a gift to help you do so. Inside this envelope is a map of Wanderers’ Woods. Follow it to a cabin. That place is the way home. And if you have writer’s block—which, I’m positive is mildly killing you despite any grief you might feel—

 

I chuckled darkly as a tear snuck past my guard. I’m going to miss how she always managed to know exactly what I was feeling. Even when I couldn’t entirely name it myself.

 

—I know that this place will help bring your spark back. Darling, there’s so much more I wish to tell you. So many things… If only there was more time. If only I wasn’t so… afraid to say them. But just know that everything you need is with you already.

           I love you, Calian.

           Always,

           Mom

 

I looked at the map. It was clear she had made it. Mom liked cartography. She always said it was worth knowing where you are in the world. And no matter how helpful GPS was, it never hurt to know how to read a map. I smiled as I remembered all the times she would invent one and then have me use it to look for ‘treasure’ around the house or apothecary.

My phone continued to ding. I silenced it quickly and gingerly grazed my fingers against the mosaic urn.

“Wanderers’ Woods, huh?”

I thought it sounded vaguely familiar, but I wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Ok, Mom.” I spoke aloud. “I hear you.”