Read Chapter 23: THE ANNIVERSARY

February returned.

A full year since Nora died.

Maeve had expected the anniversary to arrive like a wall. Instead it approached gradually through weather: the same hard drizzle, the same early darkness, the first snowdrops in a cracked planter outside the shop.

She planned nothing for the date.

Then, on the morning itself, she opened Bellwether and found a queue.

Not a huge one. Twelve people, perhaps. Old customers, neighbours, Siobhán, Bekele, Aisling, Eileen Doran. Each carried a book.

“What is this?” Maeve asked.

Aisling looked guilty. “Not my idea.”

Eileen said, “Mine.”

They had organised a book-giving day in Nora’s memory. Everyone who entered could take one donated book free, no explanation required.

“Nora would hate the lack of means testing,” Maeve said.

Eileen snorted. “Nora never means-tested anybody in her life. She just insulted them while giving things away.”

By noon, the shop was full.

People brought stories. A retired teacher produced a 1982 copy of Seamus Heaney Nora had sold her for half price. A man Maeve did not know said Nora once let him sit in the back for three hours after his wife left because he could not bear to go home.

No one turned Nora into a saint. They remembered her temper, her bad coffee, her refusal to stock celebrity memoirs, her habit of putting CLOSED signs up while remaining visibly inside.

Maeve loved them for preserving the difficult parts.

At three, Conor came with a box of books.

“House move,” he said. “These need somewhere useful.”

“Thanks.”

He hesitated. “I’m engaged.”

Maeve’s heart did something small and old.

Then settled.

“Congratulations.”

“Her name’s Niamh.”

“I remember. You mentioned her once.”

“You remember?”

“I am capable of storing information unrelated to myself.”

“Debatable.”

They smiled.

“I wanted you to hear from me,” he said.

“I’m glad you told me.”

And she was.

After he left, Maeve went upstairs for five minutes alone.

She opened the box of her parents’ things and took out a photograph of Nora at twenty-five, cigarette in hand, laughing at someone outside the frame.

For years Maeve had known Nora primarily as the woman who stayed after everyone else disappeared.

But Nora had once been young. Had friends and private disappointments. Had perhaps loved people Maeve never knew about.

Maeve no longer needed every hidden life explained.

She placed the photograph beside the cassette tape and went back downstairs.

Julian arrived near closing with Lucy.

Lucy carried a small package.

“This is for the shop.”

Inside was a ceramic cat, badly painted black.

Maeve stared.

“Beckett,” Lucy said.

“You made this?”

“At school.”

“It’s terrifying.”

“I know.”

Maeve placed Beckett on the counter beside the till.

That night, after the last customer left, Julian found Maeve sitting on the floor by the poetry shelves where she had discovered the letters one year earlier.

He sat beside her.

“I miss her,” Maeve said.

“I know.”

“I thought it would be less by now.”

“I don’t think that’s how quantity works.”

“No?”

“Maybe grief becomes less monopolistic.”

She looked at him.

“That sounds suspiciously publishable.”

“I’ll ruin it in revision.”

Maeve rested her head on his shoulder.

They sat there until the shop was completely dark.