Lately, with the help of AI, I’ve been doing a good bit of writing. I find writing cathartic, that’s why I originally started doing it. Well that, and to learn about myself and to put my thoughts out there in the hope that someone will see them and relate, have their own thoughts start a conversation, or maybe learn something about themselves (the latter of which is very narcissistic and I only mean that by sharing what I think, maybe someone else’s journey will be a little easier).
Anyway, back to the point, the beauty of AI is that it can do a lot very fast and do it fairly well. So as I pull together plots and sketch outlines, I can use AI to build on that and add the color, keep the style and syntax in sync, point me to flaws or holes in my thinking, etc. And then I can refine what AI puts out there to shape it and mold it where I want it to go through an iterative, back and forth process. Basically, AI does a lot of the dirty, detailed work that makes writing down my thoughts seem like an overwhelming task allowing me to concentrate on the vision and the execution (which I can refine). I guess this is CEO Amanda with the vision and delegating the tasks.
So I’ve “written” (with the help of AI) the stories I’ve posted. Two of them are heavy, emotional explorations. The first, entitled “Brick by Brick” was written to express many of my feelings - it starts with one of my own writings about my formative years and places “Connor” (me, but not my real name) in a situation that isn’t exactly the same but rhymes with my own, including many of the ups and downs Connor experiences along the way. His journey ultimately takes him to a place where I haven’t been, but maybe somewhere I’d like to go. The other story that I’m posting, “Tides of Amanda,” (link also below) revisits many of these same themes, albeit from an earlier point in life. It has more emphasis on some of the turmoil I felt earlier in my life, how dressing impacting some of my social development, and ultimately a recognition that the journey to acceptance of oneself is fragile, as is life itself.
This is the third and final story (I have planned) in this sort of vein - "The Velvet Anchor." It takes a different approach and adds in a time travel element - not something I typically do but necessary for Amanda to have the interactions with Connor at various points in his life that she does. The ultimate message of this story is one of acceptance - not through the help or eyes of another, but through the power of perspective of years and life lessons. This story gets at the heart of what I think my writing is all about for me - and it really hits me hard.
Fair warning - these two three stories are long, raw, heavy, and emotional - difficult reads that the reader has to persevere through. For these reasons, not anything 18+, they aren’t for the faint of heart. Ultimately, they are tales of coming to piece with oneself and creating the balance in life that I’ve written on pursuing so many times. But that’s not a linear process, instead being one that involves taking steps backwards along the way (including right out of the gate), but with the hope that over time one can move forward and come to peace with who they are.
For those who want to read lighter, more humorous stories, I’ve written several of those too - in fitting with many of the fantasies I have. Welcome to Amanda’s Ice Cream Shop - we have a lot more flavors than just vanilla and chocolate. I hope you find something that tickles your fancy!!!
All my love,
Amanda
The Velvet Anchor
Connor, a hollowed-out banker in Concord, New Hampshire, faces the internal unraveling of his carefully constructed life after a multimillion-dollar payout leaves him adrift. A mysterious locket from his childhood pulls him into a journey through time, confronting his shadow self, Amanda—a vibrant, hidden part of him born in the tidal creeks of Lowcountry South Carolina. Through raw encounters across decades, Connor wrestles with shame, longing, and the courage to reclaim his spark, navigating a path toward acceptance in a world he’s never fully fit.
Chapter 1: The Garage Abyss (Age 46, 2025)
Snow dusted the cul-de-sac outside Connor’s two-story colonial in Concord, New Hampshire, where streetlights cast long shadows across lawns, their frost glinting like scattered glass. Inside the converted garage, a sagging camp chair groaned under his 5’7” (rounded up) frame, wiry from high school track sprints and wrestling scrums—JV grit, never the varsity star he’d chased. At 46, Connor’s brown eyes stared blankly at a workbench cluttered with socket wrenches, a half-empty WD-40 can, and a chipped coffee mug, its “World’s Okayest Dad” logo faded from years of use, a Father’s Day gag from his daughter Sophie. Acoustic foam lined the walls, swallowing the hum of a neighbor’s snowblower and the faint pulse of Sophie’s pop playlist upstairs—Taylor Swift’s Evermore, her voice a distant thorn in his haze. The air hung heavy with turpentine, cedar shavings, and the sour tang of Liam’s deflated soccer ball, scuffed and abandoned against a toolbox.
Until yesterday, Connor had been Granite Trust Bank’s CFO, husband to Melody, father to Sophie (12, book-obsessed, her tongue as quick as her debate medals) and Liam (9, a whirlwind of cleats and comics). The bank’s acquisition by a Boston titan had closed that morning—$8.3 million wired to his account, 10,000 shares of the acquirer’s stock climbing steadily. It was a jackpot, a finish line after decades of 65-hour weeks, investor brunches in starched collars, and red-eye flights that left him hollow. But the job had been his spine, his rhythm—spreadsheets at dawn, boardroom sparring, the weight of a thousand accounts. Its loss didn’t free him. It gutted him. He wasn’t a man with millions. He was a man with nothing.
The garage was his bunker, a fortress against the cedar-shingled house beyond the door, where Melody’s laughter used to greet him, where Sophie’s arguments over Austen echoed, where Liam’s muddy sneakers tracked trails he’d once mopped with a grin. Now, he sat, unmoored, staring at a biometric safe tucked behind the workbench. It was Amanda’s shrine—his shadow self, born in Beaufort, South Carolina, where tidal creeks snaked through cordgrass, live oaks dripped moss, and shrimp boats rocked at dusk. A nerd who’d devoured The Hobbit while peers cast nets, he’d been a target—too short, too bright, dodging “runt” taunts with sports stats and a wrestler’s scowl and grit. At 10, he’d slipped into his mother’s lilac scarf, heart hammering before her vanity mirror, the silk’s cool weight a thrill he’d buried by morning, a secret that had haunted him ever since. In Concord, Amanda lived in the safe—silk scarves folded under tax binders, a vial of rosewater cloaked by turpentine’s bite, relics of a self he’d locked away, a shame he’d carried since childhood.
The payout mocked him. $8.3 million, stock ticking up, a fortune he’d clawed from late nights and missed bedtimes—Sophie’s first debate, Liam’s first goal, moments he’d traded for deals. Yet he envied Melody’s life, her 20-hour librarian job, her afternoons sipping tea while he bled for their house, their kids, her ease. Resentment had rooted in their 20s, when he’d locked Amanda away to build her future—her smile, her ring, her cedar-shingled dream. By his 40s, it was a quiet blade, her comfort a mirror to his cage. He’d ground himself to dust for her, and she thrived in the light he’d lost. But now, after years of seeing only her ease, he wondered—does she fight too? Her hands, callused from library boxes, her eyes tired from late nights with Sophie’s projects, flickered in his mind, a small crack in the resentment he’d built, but it still lingered.
Dinner had shattered him. The kitchen steamed with spaghetti, garlic bread cooling on a chipped platter, Liam crowing over a goal—“Slid it past Joey, Dad, like a rocket!”—his jersey streaked with sauce. Sophie dissected To Kill a Mockingbird, her chestnut braid swinging as she waved her fork—“Scout’s smarter than Jem, don’t you think?” Connor pushed noodles, silent, the fork heavy in his hand. Melody’s hazel eyes, framed by her sweater’s loose cuffs, flickered with worry, then flared. “You’ve got millions, Con,” she snapped, slamming a pot into the sink, suds splashing her sleeve, “and you’re a corpse. I’m done—figure it out.” Her voice cracked, raw—not just anger, but fear for the man she’d lost. She stormed upstairs, leaving her jammed printer by the garage door, its hum a faint accusation. Later the kids had followed. Sophie’s “Night, Dad” was soft, her hand brushing his shoulder, Liam’s hug sticky and warm, their love slipping past him like water through cracked glass.
He wandered into the garage and drifted to the safe, fingers punching 06-01-79—Amanda’s made-up birthdate, a secret he’d crafted, though Connor was several months older. The lock clicked, a low beep cutting the silence. He pulled on Amanda’s relics, movements automatic, as if drawn by a tide: a sapphire velvet dress, its hem brushing his shins, heavy with years of secrecy; a blonde wig, shoulder-length, its pins sharp against his scalp; a pearl choker, its clasp biting his throat, cool and unyielding. The fabric rustled, alien yet familiar, a skin he’d worn in stolen moments, a thrill he’d buried under shame. His fingers grazed a screwdriver on the workbench—fix the printer, do something—then brushed a silver locket, its spiral engraving worn smooth. Nana Ruth’s gift at 10, her raspy drawl echoing: “Shows you who you are when you’re lost.” He flicked it open—dust, no photo, just a faint gleam. It flared, hot as a brand.
Light erupted, bright and shimmering, a wave that toppled the printer, sent Liam’s soccer ball rolling, and rattled a shelf of paint cans. The garage spun—foam walls, workbench, safe blurring into a vortex. Connor staggered, heart pounding, the locket searing his palm. The light swallowed him whole.
He stumbled, light fading, onto a Beaufort boardwalk, July 1989. The air was thick with pluff mud’s sour tang, honeysuckle’s cloying sweetness, and the faint salt of the creek glinting below. Cicadas screeched, a relentless chorus, their hum weaving through the creak of warped planks under his feet. The sapphire dress clung damply to his legs, its velvet heavy with humidity, the wig tickling his neck, the choker tight against his throat. He froze, hands tracing the fabric—what the hell am I wearing?—panic spiking, until he looked in a mirror and saw himself, soft, feminine, with subtle makeup, his boots swapped for heels, that would allow him to avoid too many questions. The locket pulsed in his palm, warm, alive. Beaufort. 1989. His boyhood hit like a wave—cordgrass swaying, shrimp boats swaying, his mother’s laugh on the breeze. A figure perched on a piling ahead: himself, 10, wiry and bright-eyed, clutching a biscuit tin. His gut lurched. I’m her. Here to… what? Fix him? Me? Dread coiled tight, but purpose flickered, faint as a marsh light, pulling him forward.
Chapter 2: The Boardwalk’s Choice (Age 10, 1989)
The boardwalk stretched over a marsh-fringed creek, its railings weathered gray by salt and sun, oyster shells crunching underfoot like brittle whispers. Shrimp boats bobbed at the dock—Cap’n Joe’s Miss Lila, its paint peeling, nets sagging heavy with the day’s catch, the deck slick with shrimp guts that caught the fading light. A radio crackled faintly, Conway Twitty’s drawl drifting over the water, mingling with the pluff mud’s earthy bite and the honeysuckle blooming wild along the bank. The sky bled amber and pink, casting long shadows as egrets speared minnows in the shallows below, their white wings flashing against the creek’s dark ripple. Amanda’s heels sank into the soft planks, her sapphire dress pooling around her calves, the velvet damp with Lowcountry heat and humidity. The blonde wig stuck to her neck, strands catching in the breeze, and the pearl choker bit into her throat, a constant reminder of her borrowed skin. The locket pulsed in her hand, hot and heavy, its spiral glinting like a warning.
Connor, 10, perched on a piling, 4’8”, wiry from backyard sprints and tree-climbing dares with his sister Ellie. His sneakers, caked with marsh mud, dangled over the creek, and his cowlick flopped across his forehead, untamed despite his mother’s morning comb. He clutched a biscuit tin—rusted at the edges, a faded ship etched on its lid—holding treasures: a shark’s tooth from Fripp Island, a dented bottlecap from a Coke shared with Pa, a crimson satin ribbon stolen from his mother’s sewing basket, its sheen vivid against the tin’s dull metal. His brown eyes, too bright for Beaufort’s slow rhythms, weighed Cap’n Joe’s offer, the old man’s voice gravelly from the dock: “That ribbon for a lure, kid—yer pa’ll love it for his tackle box.” Ellie, 7, skipped stones nearby, her pigtails swinging, her sundress spotted with mud. “Con’s tin’s girly!” she giggled, her rock splashing short, ripples spreading. Connor grinned, gap-toothed, but his fingers tightened on the tin, protective.
Amanda approached, her shadow stretching long across the planks, the locket’s heat a coal in her palm. Her chest tightened, a storm of shame and longing—you’re me, and I buried you. She saw her own guilt in his bright eyes, the same guilt that had eaten at her for decades, a weight she’d carried since even before she was his age, hiding in safes and shadows. She wanted to scream—don’t start this, don’t trade yourself—but his innocence, that nerdy spark, held her, a light she’d dimmed too long. “Trading post open, kid?” she asked, her voice softer than she meant, the Lowcountry drawl trembling with a vulnerability she couldn’t hide.
Connor looked up, fearless, his grin wide but wary, sensing the tremor in her tone. “Kinda. Cap’n Joe wants this ribbon—I like it, though.” He opened the tin, flashing the satin, its crimson catching the sunset like a flare. His eyes flicked to Ellie, then back to Amanda, searching her face. “I’m Connor. You… you look fancy—and sad. You from Charleston?”
“Farther,” Amanda said, easing onto the boardwalk’s edge, her dress pooling like spilled ink, the planks creaking under her weight. Her throat tightened—I’m sad because I failed you. She saw the ribbon, a piece of her own past, and it cut deep, a reminder of the lilac scarf she’d hidden at his age, the thrill she’d buried by morning. “I’m Amanda. I… I used to have a ribbon like that. Kept it hidden, ‘cause I was scared.”
He tilted his head, sneakers kicking the piling, his fingers tracing the tin’s lid. “Scared of what? It’s just a ribbon. I read Treasure Island—I thought maybe it’s pirate queen’s loot, like for a story.” His voice dropped, shy now, his eyes darting to Ellie’s splash. “But Dad says boys don’t fuss with stuff like this. Says I should learn the tides, not… not be girly.”
Amanda’s breath hitched, her hands clenching the dress’s hem—I was scared of that too, of being seen. Her heart ached, the locket flaring, urging her to speak the truth she’d locked away. “I was scared of being me,” she admitted, her voice raw, the drawl cracking like ice over a river. “I loved satin, stories, all of it—same as you. But I hid it, ‘cause folks like your dad, they didn’t get it. I traded my spark for their tides, and it… it broke me for a long time.”
Connor’s eyes widened, the tin slipping slightly in his grip, his muddy thumb smudging the ship. “Broke you? But you’re… you’re all fancy. You don’t look broke.” He paused, then whispered, “I don’t wanna break. Ellie likes my stories, but… what if Dad’s right?”
Amanda leaned closer, the wig’s pins digging in, her voice a whisper to match his, nerdy and quick, a cadence they shared. “You won’t break, Connor—not if you hold onto what’s yours. That ribbon’s your map, your pirate queen’s gold. I… I wish I’d kept mine closer. I spent years hiding, hating myself for loving what I loved. Don’t start that fight—not at 10.” Her eyes burned, tears pricking—I failed you, but you don’t have to fail me.
He kicked a loose shell, watching it skitter into the water, his small frame hunching as if shielding the tin from her words. His mind churned, a boy’s tangle of fear and wonder—Dad’ll laugh, but she’s like me, she gets it. He saw his attic hideout, the flashlight glow on The Hobbit, the way the ribbon felt against his cheek when no one was looking, a secret he guarded like a dragon’s hoard. “I don’t wanna hide,” he mumbled, voice barely audible over Ellie’s next splash, “but I don’t wanna get laughed at neither.”
“Then don’t,” Amanda said, softer now, her hand hovering near his, not touching, the locket’s warmth spreading through her palm. “Tell Ellie your stories—make her that pirate queen. Keep the ribbon in your tin, where it’s safe, ‘til you’re ready. I… I wasn’t ready for a long time, but you can be braver than I was.” Her voice broke, a confession she hadn’t meant to give—I’m here to fix what I broke.
He nodded, slow, his fingers tightening on the tin, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “Ellie’d like that—her bein’ a queen. I’ll keep it, then. For her.” His grin returned, small but real, a spark Amanda clung to—he’s me, and he’s not lost yet. The boardwalk creaked as she stood, brushing sand from her hands, the locket humming, tugging her back. “Keep your ship afloat and your loot close, kid,” she said, her voice steadier, carrying a warmth she’d fought to find. He waved, tin tucked under his arm, as Ellie called, “Story, Con! Make it scary!” The light swirled, sudden and sharp, pulling Amanda away, the boardwalk fading to salt and shadow, the creek’s ripple lingering in her ears.
Chapter 3: The Alley’s Armor (Age 16, 1995)
Light hardened, and Amanda stood in a Beaufort alley, October 1995, the air thick with pine sap and the smoky tang of an oyster roast two blocks over. Brick walls loomed, scrawled with graffiti—Class of ’92, Trey wuz here—their red and black letters faded under years of salt and rain. Floodlights buzzed from the homecoming field nearby, where a cover band thumped “Sweet Caroline,” the crowd’s off-key chorus drifting like a taunt. A crushed flyer, glitter-smeared, caught under her heel—Homecoming ‘95, Go Eagles!—its edges curling in the damp. Her sapphire dress shimmered faintly, catching stray beams, the blonde wig pinned tight despite the breeze, the pearl choker cool against her throat, its clasp a steady pinch. The locket pulsed in her hand, softer now, its spiral glinting like a half-remembered dream.
Connor, 16, slouched against a dumpster, 5’5” and lean from track, his flannel patched with a Nirvana logo, a Walkman clipped to his belt blasting Smells Like Teen Spirit through cheap earbuds. Acne bloomed across his jaw, his brown eyes stormy under a flop of dark hair—top English student, JV wrestler for grit, but a nerd dodging “egghead” jabs at every turn. His sneakers, scuffed from alley shortcuts, kicked at a pebble, and his fingers clutched a spiral notebook, its cover doodled with knights and vines, smudged from being stuffed into his backpack too fast. Trey’s posse—letterman jackets, gelled hair—kicked a football nearby, their laughter sharp as the ball thudded against the dumpster. “Yo, Picasso, write us a poem ‘bout your feelings!” Trey called, 6’2” and all muscle, his grin a blade.
Amanda clicked closer, heels echoing on cracked pavement, the locket’s pulse steady, her gut roiling—there’s the geek I buried, and I’m still running. Her scorn had dulled since the boardwalk, but it lingered, a reflex at seeing him hide again, just as she’d hidden for years. But his spark—those stories, that notebook—pulled her, a tide she couldn’t fight. “Skipping the pep rally?” she asked, her drawl defiant, but softer now, laced with a tremor of recognition, matching his alley swagger, sharp and quick like a kid who’d memorized Tolkien but played it cool.
He yanked an earbud free, the faint snarl of Kurt Cobain leaking out, and shoved the notebook deeper into his bag as the football arced again. “Who’re you? Chaperones don’t dress like that,” he growled, eyes flicking to Trey, then her—her dress, her choker, an oddity in the alley’s grit. His voice softened, wary but curious. “You… you look like you don’t belong here. Why’re you hiding too?”
“Amanda, just passing,” she said, leaning against the brick, its cool roughness biting through her sleeve, the choker glinting under a streetlight. Her breath caught—he sees me, more than I saw myself. She saw her own teenage years in his slouch, the shawl she’d worn at 15, the laughter that had followed, a memory that still stung. “I’m not hiding—not anymore. But I did once. Wore my ma’s shawl, locked in my room, ‘til a kid like Trey laughed. Felt like I’d never breathe again.”
He kicked a bottlecap, sending it skittering into a puddle, Trey’s “Sonnet, nerd!” echoing like a gunshot. “Trey’d make me a joke—school’s hell already,” he muttered, his jaw tight, the football thudding closer now. He hesitated, then met her gaze, his voice low, raw. “I wore it too—Ma’s shawl. A ‘dare,’ I told myself. Felt… right, ‘til Trey caught me. Why’d you keep going? Why didn’t you just stop?”
Amanda’s chest tightened, the locket flaring—I stopped for too long, and it broke me. She saw her own guilt in his question, the decades of hiding, the safes and shadows, the guilt that had eaten at her for so long. “I did stop,” she confessed, her voice cracking, the drawl heavy with regret. “Hid it all—my stories, my spark—for years, ‘cause I thought it’d keep me safe. But it didn’t. It just made me smaller. You don’t have to stop, Connor. Not for Trey, not for anyone.”
He pulled out the notebook, flipping to The Knight of the Saffron Veil—a warrior hiding a scarf under armor, battling shadows only he saw, the ink smudged from sweaty palms. “This… it’s me, I guess,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing under the acne. “But Beaufort’s a trap, lady. Dad wants football, says books ain’t tough. Trey’d smash me if I showed this.” His mind raced, a tangle of shame and longing—Trey’ll laugh, but I can’t stop writing, can I? He saw his D&D sessions with Jamie, the way the stories made him feel alive, a secret he guarded like a fragile flame.
“You’re tougher than they know,” Amanda said, her voice fierce now, shoving down her old hate—he’s me, and he’s fighting. She leaned closer, the alley’s smoke curling around them, her drawl matching his cadence, nerdy and raw. “I hid ‘til I couldn’t anymore—‘til I broke. Don’t wait that long. Show Ms. Carter that story—she’ll get it. Wear that shawl in your room, door locked, ‘til it’s yours again.” Her eyes burned, a plea—I failed you, but you can be braver.
He snorted, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, fingers grazing the notebook. “Jamie’s cool—he’d like the knight. But… what if I’m a freak forever?” His voice broke, Trey’s laugh a low rumble, the football thudding again.
“You’re not,” Amanda said, softer now, her hand hovering near his, the locket warming her palm. “You’re a knight, Connor. Forge your armor—your words, your spark. I… I wish I’d forged mine sooner.” Her voice trembled, a confession—I’m here to save us both. The locket vibrated, Trey’s crew drifting toward the field, their shouts fading. She stepped back, dress brushing the brick, the alley’s shadows swallowing her silhouette. “Keep your steel sharp, kid,” she said, her drawl a tether to his fire. He nodded, clutching the notebook like a shield, his eyes brighter, almost trusting. Light swept her away, the alley blurring into smoke and salt, the dumpster’s clang echoing in her ears.
Chapter 4: The Studio’s Fork (Age 20, 1999)
Light bloomed, soft and warm, and Amanda stood in a Charleston studio, September 1999, a skylight framing a crescent moon above, its silver pooling on warped floorboards. The air was thick with book dust, patchouli from a smoldering stick, and the greasy tang of a half-eaten po’boy on a cluttered table—shrimp spilling from wax paper, a smear of remoulade staining a poetry slam flyer. Fairy lights draped the walls, their glow catching sagging posters—The Indigo Veil, Open Mic Tonight—and a battered turntable spun Billie Holiday’s Stormy Weather, her voice a velvet ache over the clop of a carriage outside. Amanda’s sapphire dress shimmered, its hem brushing stacks of journals, the blonde wig soft against her shoulders, the pearl choker steady, its clasp a faint pinch. The locket pulsed gently, its spiral catching the moonlight, a quiet call to linger.
Connor, 20, 5’6” (almost able to round up), sprawled on a futon, legs dangling over the armrest, scribbling in a moleskin notebook, its leather cover worn from late-night rants. His flannel was rolled to the elbows, a hemp necklace loose around his throat—English major, free but tense, the nerd masking as cool with thrift-store swagger. His hair, longer now, curled at the nape, and ink stained his fingers, a badge of poems scratched out between Eliot seminars. A letter from Melody was pinned to a corkboard—Beaufort reunion next month, miss you, Con!—her loopy script a tether to home, a spark he hadn’t named yet. The studio was his haven, books piled on crates—Plath, Ginsberg, Tolkien—a guitar he couldn’t play well leaning in the corner, its strings dusty.
Amanda rapped the table, her gut twisting—still me, dreaming, so close to losing it all. Her scorn had faded, hope creeping in like the moon’s light, softening her edges. She saw his spark—brighter now, less buried—and it pulled her, a tide she couldn’t resist. “Midnight epic?” she asked, her drawl lighter, teasing like his dorm-room banter, but heavy with a longing she couldn’t hide.
He grinned, ink smudging his cheek, and sat up, moleskin splayed across his knee. “Eliot paper—Prufrock’s killing me. I’m Connor. You in lit seminar?” His eyes flicked to her dress, curious, then softened. “You… you look like you’re searching for something. What’d you lose?”
“Night owl, no syllabus,” Amanda said, easing onto a crate, her dress brushing a stack of Paris Review issues, their pages curling. Her breath caught—he sees me, just like I saw myself, before I stopped looking. His question stung, a mirror to her own losses—the stories she’d abandoned, the satin she’d locked away, the guilt that had followed her. “I lost… me, I guess. Stopped writing, stopped being me, traded stories for safety, after a night like this. Don’t let this place be your detour, kid.”
He tilted the moleskin, revealing The Silk Wanderer—a nomad in a veiled city, seeking a truth he couldn’t name, the prose tight, vivid, smudged from revisions. “This is… kinda me,” he said, wary, scratching his neck. “Got a kimono—silk, cranes on it—wore it to a party last week, said it was ‘ironic.’ Felt like flying, though.” He paused, voice dropping, raw. “But what if I’m… weird forever? Not just here—what if I can’t stop?”
Amanda’s heart clenched, the locket warming—I was weird too, and I stopped for too long. She saw her own college years, the nights she’d buried her spark to fit in, the kegs she’d chosen over poetry, a choice that led to decades of hiding, to losing who she was. “I stopped,” she admitted, her voice soft, the drawl heavy with regret. “Thought it’d make me normal—safe. But it didn’t. It just made me hollow. You’re flying, Connor—don’t clip your wings for anyone.”
Connor’s friend Dave crashed through the door, beer-soaked, his Kappa Sig shirt stained. “Yo, Con, kegs at the bash—let’s roll!” he slurred, tugging Connor’s arm, spilling a Natty Light on the floorboards.
Connor froze, pen dripping ink onto the moleskin, his eyes flicking between Dave and the page. His mind churned—I wanna go, but I wanna stay, I wanna be me. He saw the kimono in his closet, the way it felt against his skin, a secret he’d guarded since Beaufort, a spark he couldn’t name. “Dunno, man—draft’s due tomorrow,” he mumbled, but his voice shook, torn.
“That wanderer’s your road,” Amanda said, urgent, shoving down her dread—don’t cave, not now. She stood, dress rustling, the locket pulsing like a heartbeat. “I chose kegs once, ‘cause I was scared of being… weird. Took me years to find my way back—still trying to get there. The Indigo Veil’s got poetry tonight—your words, your flight. Choose it.” Her eyes burned, a plea—I lost myself, but you don’t have to.
“Poetry? Lame!” Dave flopped onto the futon, snoring in seconds, a can rolling under the table.
“Wear that kimono there,” Amanda said, warm, her drawl a nudge. “Read The Silk Wanderer —find your crew, the ones who get it. I… I wish I’d found mine sooner.” Her voice broke, a confession—I’m here to save us.
He laughed, the light back in his eyes, bright and unguarded. “Might sneak over—kimono’s in my closet, still smells like patchouli.” His mind settled, a flicker of hope—I can be me, just for tonight. The locket tugged, her smile real now, a gift she hadn’t meant to give. She stepped back, dress catching a journal, as Dave’s snores filled the room. Light bloomed, pulling her away, the studio fading to dust and moonlight, Billie’s voice lingering like a promise.
Chapter 5: The Loft’s Deadline (Age 28, 2007)
Light steadied, and Amanda stood in a Savannah loft, June 2007, rain drumming the skylights like a restless pulse, the air thick with chicory coffee, candle wax, and the sweet decay of gardenias wilting in a cracked vase. Bookshelves sagged under Austen, Atwood, and dog-eared finance journals, their spines glowing in the flicker of a storm lantern. Spanish moss swayed outside, a green curtain against the downpour, and a sax wailed faintly from a bar down the street, its notes weaving through the thunder’s low growl. Amanda’s sapphire dress flared, its hem brushing a braided rug, the blonde wig damp from the storm’s breath, the pearl choker cold against her throat, its clasp a steady ache. The locket pulsed, urgent now, its spiral catching the lantern’s glow, a call to act, not watch.
Connor, 27, 5’7” (rounded up), paced in a dress shirt, sleeves rolled, tie loosened like a noose undone. His phone barked from a glass-topped table—“Rates locked, confirm now!”—an analyst at Savannah Trust, his days a grind of spreadsheets and client dinners. Melody’s engagement ring glinted beside a half-eaten peach tart, his proposal imminent, her smile a tether he’d chosen. But Amanda was buried, locked in a safe under tax files, her silk a secret he’d traded for this life—Melody’s future, her ease, a house he’d build. Resentment budded, a quiet thorn—her art degree, her part-time bookstore job, her debt, her freedom while he clawed for their dream. His face was taut, shadows pooling under his eyes, a portfolio of manuscripts—The Velvet Anchor, half-finished tales—hidden behind a locked drawer, its key taped shut. Voicemail snapped: “Q2’s late—desk by dawn or your ass.”
Amanda knocked on the opened door, her gut churning—you caged me, for her, and it’s killing us. Her scorn was gone, replaced by urgency, a need to pull him back. She saw his strain, his spark dimmed, and it broke her—he’s me, drowning. “Storm’s wild tonight,” she said, feigning a shiver, her drawl like his barstool chats with Melody, warm but edged, trembling with the weight of her own failures.
He set the phone down, bourbon in hand, the glass sweating on a coaster. “Come in, get dry. Connor. You from upstairs?” His eyes flicked to her dress, curious but tired, the fight drained from him. He paused, voice raw. “You look… lost, like me. Why’re you here?”
“Drifting,” Amanda said, easing onto a barstool, the rug soft under her heels, her mind racing—you’re lost because I locked us away. His question cut deep, a mirror to her own lost years, the safes she’d filled with silk, the guilt that had followed her. “I’m Amanda. I… I caged myself for a ring, a house—someone else’s dream. Thought it’d make me whole. It didn’t. You still write? That desk looks like numbers, not stories.”
“Used to—tales, veils, weird stuff,” he said, sipping, the bourbon’s bite sharpening his voice. “No time now—Melody’s wedding plans, job’s a meat grinder.” He glanced at the ring, a flicker of warmth, then pain. “She’s got it easy—bookstore, coffee breaks. I’m drowning for her, and she doesn’t even see me—does she?” His mind churned, a storm of resentment and love—I’m bleeding for her, but I’m fading.
Amanda’s throat tightened, the locket flaring—I drowned too, for her, and I blamed her. She saw her own resentment in his words, the years she’d envied Melody’s ease while grinding for their life. “I blamed her too,” she confessed, her voice raw, the drawl heavy with regret. “Thought her smile was my chain. But I caged myself—hid my silk, my words, ‘til I forgot who I was. She’s not your chain, Connor. You are.”
Melody’s keys jingled outside, her laugh muffled by the rain—home early from book club. Connor shoved the portfolio deeper into a drawer, panic flaring, his hand shaking as he taped the key back. “She can’t see this,” he whispered, more to himself, the bourbon trembling in his glass. His mind raced—she’ll leave, she’ll hate me, I can’t lose her. He saw the lilac scarf, and thought about the way it felt against his skin, a secret he’d buried since Charleston, a spark he couldn’t let die.
“She’s not your chain,” Amanda said, urgent, the locket flaring brighter—she’ll love you, let her try. She stood, dress rustling, her voice a plea, matching his cadence. “I hid ‘til I broke—don’t wait that long. Wear that scarf, Connor—write one page of The Velvet Anchor. It’s quiet, but it’s yours.” Her eyes burned, tears pricking—I failed us, but you can save us.
“Sinking,” he croaked, Melody’s voice calling, “Con, you up?”—bright, unaware, cutting through the storm. His mind shifted, a flicker of hope—I can’t lose her, but I can’t lose me.
“Write one line,” Amanda said, softer, the light tugging, her hand hovering near his, not touching. “For you, not her.” He reached for the key, fingers brushing the tape, as the loft faded, rain and sax blurring into shadow, Melody’s footsteps echoing in her ears.
Chapter 6: The Quarry’s Mirror (Age 41, 2020)
Light blazed, cold and sharp, and Amanda stood in a New Hampshire quarry, February 2020, snow swirling like ash, the frozen river below a cracked mirror under the moon. Wind howled through pines, an owl’s hoot cutting the silence, the air biting with frost and the faint tang of woodsmoke from a distant cabin. Her sapphire dress clung damply, its velvet heavy with snow, the blonde wig matted, the pearl choker icy against her throat, its clasp a numb ache. The locket pulsed softly, its spiral glinting faintly, not a command but a tether, warm and steady, urging her to stay.
Connor, 41, teetered on the quarry’s edge, his overcoat flapping, a flask spilling bourbon onto the snow, its amber soaking red where he’d cut his palm on a jagged rock. The job haunted him. His life haunted him. Melody’s words—“figure it out”—rang, raw and desperate, from a fight weeks back, Sophie’s science volcano undone, Liam’s coach texting about missed practices. He resented Melody’s ease—her library job, 20 hours a week, their cedar-shingled house, his grind for her life. Amanda was his cage, a secret he’d locked to build her world, her smile a debt he’d paid in blood. His face was gaunt, brown eyes hollow, the flask trembling as he swayed, the cliff’s drop a whisper he almost answered.
Amanda crunched closer, snow muffling her heels, the locket’s pulse a heartbeat—you’re still running, and I’m so tired. Her hate was gone, dissolved into empathy, a need to hold him, not judge. She saw his pain—her pain—and it broke her, a mirror she couldn’t shatter. “Rough spot to stand,” she said, voice low, like his late-night confessions to Melody before the bank consumed him, soft and Southern, trembling with shared despair.
He spun, slipping, snow crunching under his boots. “Who’re you?” he rasped, squinting—her dress, wig, choker catching moonlight. “My stuff—I’m seeing ghosts.” He froze, tracing her face—his face, older, softer, raw. “You’re me. How’s this real? What’s in this bourbon?” His voice cracked, bourbon dripping from the flask, staining his glove. His mind reeled—I’m breaking, and she’s here, she’s me.
“Amanda,” she said, raw, stepping closer, the snow swallowing her heels—you see me now, after all these years. “From your future—been with you at 10, 16, 20, 28. I… I stood on a ledge like this, years ago, after a night I couldn’t be me. Felt so empty there were times I thought jumping might be easier.” Her voice broke, as memories of the pain and guilt that had followed her so long. “You’re lost, Con—but I’m here.”
He sank to his knees, sobbing, the flask rolling away, snow soaking his coat. “Empty—Melody’s done with me, Sophie’s hurt, Liam’s lost me. Job’s a killer—no point. Just working to keep them happy—off my back. Her—Amanda—you—I’ve fought her, let her in, but she’s wrong, she’s not me.” His mind churned, a storm of fear and shame—what if they leave me, Sophie, Liam, her? He saw Sophie’s books, Liam’s muddy jerseys, Melody’s tired eyes, a life he’d bled for, a life he might lose.
She knelt, snow biting her knees, her hand on his, cold but steady—I hated her too, but she’s us. “Connor—Amanda, she is you,” she said, soft, tears freezing on her cheeks. “I’ve learned with you—fought her at 10, pushed her at 16, hoped with her at 20, begged at 28. I hated her ‘til I saw her spark—yours. Sophie’s waiting, Liam needs you. Melody’s not your cage.” Her mind raced, reflecting on her journey—I hid for so long, but I’m slowly finding my way, and you will too.
“How’re you free?” he rasped, gripping her hand, blood smearing her palm. “Sophie’ll see—she’ll hate it. Liam’s sad—Melody doesn’t know. I resent her—she coasts, I bled for her life, locked you away for her.” His heart pounded, a tangle of love and fear—I can’t lose them, but I can’t lose me.
“She’s fighting too,” Amanda said, firm, tears falling, the locket warm—you’re not alone. “I envied her too, ‘til I saw her hands—callused from carrying boxes, her eyes tired from late nights for Sophie’s projects. Sophie’s books—her debates—she’s yours. Liam’s goals—he’s running for you. Melody’s holding them, Con—her fundraisers, her patience. You’re holding her.” Her mind settled, a truth she’d learned—I blamed her, but I caged myself.
He shuddered, blood mixing with snow, his eyes searching hers—his. “Real—Ma’s scarf, that fort we built at 11 to hide ourselves from the world?” His mind grasped for proof, a lifeline—I’m not alone, she’s me.
“Us,” she said, breaking, her voice a whisper, Southern and raw. “I fought her, hated her, ‘til I saw her spark—yours.” Her chest ached, a shared pain—I’m here, and so are you.
“Why now?” he sobbed, the locket glinting, its spiral catching starlight.
“Nana Ruth’s gift,” she said, steady, her hand tightening on his. “Pulling you back—to you, to them.” Her mind settled, a purpose—I’m saving us, like I’m saving myself.
“To what?” he rasped, voice breaking. “I don’t know her—I don’t know me.”
“Feel her,” Amanda said, fierce, her drawl a vow—you’re enough. “Wear it, Con—call Dr. Ellis, that therapist in Manchester. Read with Sophie, kick that ball with Liam.” Her heart lifted, a hope—I’m finding my way, and so can you.
“Melody?” he whispered, snow dusting his hair, his breath fogging.
“She’s trying,” Amanda said, honest, her voice soft—I don’t know her heart, but I know yours. “She’s fought for you—fights still.” Her mind paused, uncertain—she might not understand, but she’ll try—give her that much credit, Connor.
He stood, shaky, hugging her, his coat damp against her dress, the flask lost in the snow. “I’m scared,” he mumbled, face buried in her shoulder, her wig catching his tears. His mind shifted, a flicker of hope—I can try, for them, for me.
“Me too,” she said, holding him, the locket pulsing. Light surged, gentle now, the quarry fading to frost and shadow, his warmth lingering in her arms.
Chapter 7: The Return
Light dissolved with a shudder, and Connor staggered back into the Concord garage, the locket clattering to the concrete, its silver gleam dull under the fluorescent bulb’s harsh buzz, Amanda’s makeup and heels gone, the boots back on his feet. He sank onto the camp chair, its canvas creaking under his frame, still taut from stress-fueled jogs through snow-dusted parks. Snowmelt pooled around his boots, a glistening crescent seeping into the floor’s cracks, the air sharp with turpentine, cedar shavings, and the faint rubbery tang of Liam’s deflated soccer ball, scuffed and forgotten by the toolbox. The biometric safe hummed, its green light pulsing like a heartbeat behind the workbench, cluttered with socket wrenches, a dented oil can, and the chipped mug—World’s Okayest Dad. Amanda’s relics clung to him—sapphire dress damp with quarry snow, its velvet heavy, the blonde wig askew, pins digging into his scalp, the pearl choker tight, cold, a noose he’d worn in a fog before the locket flared. He fumbled the locket into a drawer, the key scraping metal, his breath hitching—you’re here, aren’t you?—the lock’s click a gunshot in the silence.
The garage was his tomb, foam-padded walls swallowing sound, a bunker where he’d wrestled with Amanda for years—grudgingly, resentfully, a secret he’d locked since Beaufort. His chest heaved, replaying each encounter: at 10, clutching that ribbon, her raw confession—“I was scared of being me”—a lash he’d flinched from; at 16, scribbling in that alley, her shared shame—“I wore my ma’s shawl”—a spark he’d grabbed; at 20, wandering Charleston, her regret—“I stopped writing”—a pull he’d resisted; at 28, caged in Savannah, her plea—“She’s not your chain”—a shove he’d ignored; at 41, breaking on that cliff, her face—his face—crumbling the lie he’d lived with her words, “I stood on a ledge like this.” Each visit was a war—I hate you, I need you—and he’d pushed himself despite it, self-aware enough to see the kid drowning, not wise enough to save the man. Amanda’s voice echoed in his mind, raw and Southern, like his own late-night confessions to Melody before the bank consumed him. “I’m here to save us,” she’d said on that boardwalk, her drawl trembling, and he’d hated her for it, for seeing the spark he’d buried, for pulling him back at the quarry. But her scorn had faded to empathy, and with it, his resentment toward Melody shifted, a tide slowly receding.
Upstairs, the house creaked—Liam’s footsteps padded across the hardwood, his sleepy “Dad?” drifting through the door, muffled by foam, a nine-year-old’s voice thick with midnight comics and half-dreamed adventures. Sophie’s pop music had silenced—bedtime, her room a fortress of books, debate notes taped to walls, her “Night, Dad” from dinner still soft in his ears, a whisper against his numbness. Melody slept, or didn’t—their bedroom door had slammed hours ago, her “figure it out” a whip-crack he couldn’t unhear, but her fundraiser tote by the door—Books for Kids, logo faded—hinted at her strain, not just ease. He saw her now, as Amanda had shown him at the quarry—her hands, callused from carrying boxes, her eyes tired from late nights for Sophie’s projects, her fundraisers a quiet fight he’d missed in his grind. She’s not coasting, he thought, the coal cooling. I locked Amanda. I did it, not Melody.
He didn’t call back to Liam, throat locked, but the boy’s voice tethered him, pulling him from the quarry’s edge—they don’t know her, and I barely do. The printer lay toppled, its paper tray cracked, a casualty of the locket’s jolt, wires spilling like guts. He kicked it absently, plastic skittering across the floor—fix something, anything—but his hands stayed empty, trembling, the dress itching against his thighs—get off me—yet he didn’t strip it, not yet. Amanda lingered, her empathy a weight he couldn’t shake, her voice—Melody’s trying—a thread he didn’t trust but couldn’t cut. His mind churned, a storm of longing and resistance—I don’t want you, but I can’t let you go. He whispered into the silence, as if she could hear, “Why do you keep coming back? I… I buried you for them.” His voice broke, raw, a confession he hadn’t meant to give—I failed you, but you didn’t fail me.
Sleep crept in, fractured, his dreams jagged by memories—oyster shells crunching underfoot, the alley’s smoky dusk, Charleston’s dusty books, Savannah’s rain-slicked loft, the quarry’s frost biting his lungs. Lilac scarves draped a blanket fort at 11, flashlight trembling, flickered in his mind—you were there, and I hated you—his brown eyes staring back from Amanda’s face, her voice a lifeline he’d grabbed and cursed. He jolted awake, the chair creaking, dawn smearing gray through the garage window, the dress still on, damp and cold—why am I still her? His gut twisted, a war unresolved—I don’t want you, but I can’t let you go—and he stood, legs stiff, staring at the safe. The payout loomed—$8.3 million, stock in his portfolio—freedom he didn’t feel, a fortune he’d earned but couldn’t claim. He grabbed a screwdriver, started on the printer its gears grinding as he worked, Amanda’s shadow hovering, quiet, waiting, her empathy a mirror to his softening heart.
Chapter 8: The Spiral’s Unraveling
Weeks unfurled, and Connor’s world shifted, a marsh after a storm, currents swirling beneath a deceptively still surface. The garage became his crucible, its concrete floor scuffed from pacing, the workbench a chaos of tools and Amanda’s relics—sapphire dress folded in the safe, its velvet dulled by dust, the blonde wig hidden beside it, the pearl choker glinting in a tin beside a cracked vial of rosewater, its scent faint but sharp. Nights were a ritual he couldn’t name—unlocking the safe, tracing the dress’s hem, sitting with the locket, its spiral cold against his palm, as if it might speak again. Memories flickered, vivid and alien, Amanda’s voice etching them anew: at 10, he’d shown Ellie the ribbon, her braiding it into her doll’s hair, her giggle a salve as Amanda whispered, “I was scared of being me”; at 16, Ms. Carter had pinned The Saffron Veil to her board, her “Fearless, Connor” scrawled in red, as Amanda confessed, “I wore my ma’s shawl”; at 20, he’d read The Silk Wanderer at The Indigo Veil, kimono rustling to a dozen claps, Amanda’s regret—“I stopped writing”—a weight he’d carried; at 28, he’d penned a poem for Melody over Savannah coffee, her “You’ve got a way” soft in his ears, as Amanda urged, “She’s not your chain”; at 41, he’d called Dr. Ellis, her card creased in his wallet, her “We’ll unpack this” a lifeline, as Amanda shared, “I stood on a ledge like this.” Did she reweave me, or light what was there? he wondered, the uncertainty gnawing—did I do that, or did she?—Amanda a ghost he’d fought, let in, but never mapped.
Melody moved like a wary tide, her hazel eyes probing over breakfast, the kitchen warm with oatmeal steam and the tang of burnt toast—Liam’s doing, his “Oops!” muffled by a mouthful as he grinned, his jersey untucked, a Lego CFO—black suit, red cape, wing dangling—clutched in his grubby hand. “Made you, Dad—cooler, ‘cause you’re boring now!” he teased, nine-year-old honesty cutting deep, and Connor forced a laugh, his chest tight—he doesn’t know her, doesn’t see the fight. Melody’s fingers, deft from years of shelving books, braided Sophie’s chestnut hair into a tight plait, her sweater sleeve brushing the table. “You’re quieter, Con,” she said, spoon clinking against her bowl, her voice cautious, a librarian’s precision, “but not gone—better than last week?” Her eyes held strain—fundraisers, Sophie’s debate prep, Liam’s muddy cleats—not the cushy life he’d cursed, a truth Amanda had shown him at the quarry. He nodded, oatmeal untouched, resentment fading—she’s not my cage, Amanda was. “Trying, Mel,” he rasped, her small smile a seed he didn’t trust, not yet.
Sophie dragged him to her room that night, her walls a collage of debate medals, Austen quotes taped beside a Mockingbird poster, a shelf of books—some with trans heroes, he’d noticed, 2025’s world softer than his youth—spilling onto her desk. She shoved Emma into his hands—“Read with me, Dad, do Knightley grumpy, you’re good at it!” Her hazel eyes—his eyes—sparked, and he obliged, her laugh at his gruff voice cracking his shell, Amanda stirring—what if they saw me? His mind raced, a tangle of fear and longing—I want to show you, but I’m scared. He stumbled over lines—she’s here—but Sophie didn’t notice, her pencil scratching notes, her “You’re the best, Dad” a balm he clung to. Later, at Liam’s soccer game, Connor stood on the sidelines, snow dusting his coat, Amanda’s scarf tucked under his collar, its silk a secret burn as parents cheered. Liam slid past a defender, his grin wide—“For you, Dad!”—and Connor waved, heart lifting—he doesn’t see, but maybe I want him to, someday. Maybe.
He wrote again, late in the garage, the safe’s hum a drone under the bulb’s buzz, a moleskin notebook pilfered from Sophie’s stash—The Velvet Anchor, a nomad facing his veil, ink smudging as his pen shook. “The velvet burned his skin,” he scrawled, “a shroud he’d worn and loathed,” the words spilling like blood—she’s here, I need her—and he hid it in the safe, behind tax binders, the lock clicking shut. The payout sat in Vanguard—$8.3 million, stock up 15%—a fortune he resented less, its weight lighter as he saw Melody’s fight—her tote stuffed with fundraiser flyers, her hands sorting library donations late. He wore the scarf to a park one Sunday, silk under his coat, a quiet pulse as joggers panted past, their breath clouding in the February chill, pride flags on porches a faint nod to a world he didn’t fit.
Jen, his former administrative assistant, met him at The Brew, a coffee shop with mismatched chairs and a rainbow flag taped to the window, her hair dyed purple now, her “No bank, huh?” a tease over lattes. “Wrote poems as a kid,” he muttered, testing—she’d recoil—and she grinned, “Dope, man—read me one!” His stomach lurched—she doesn’t know her, but she might not run—and he recited a Charleston fragment, voice low, her nod a jolt he didn’t trust. “Got an open mic here,” she said, pointing to a flyer, “you should try it.” He nodded, throat tight—maybe. That night, he whispered to Amanda in the dark, the safe’s green light blinking like an eye. “You got me here,” he rasped, voice breaking, “but what if they run—Sophie, Liam, Mel?” His mind churned—I’m scared, but I want to be seen. Amanda’s voice, soft and Southern, answered in his mind—“They’ll try, Con—I tried for you.” Her empathy, a lifeline from the quarry, pulled him forward.
A package arrived from his parents’ estate—a battered envelope, Beaufort postmark faded, Ma’s cursive inside: “Ellie said you loved this ribbon, my dreamer—kept it for you, 1989.” The crimson satin spilled out, its sheen dulled but intact, a thread from Amanda’s boardwalk whisper, and he clutched it, tears stinging—you kept her, you fool, and I fought her. He sat on the garage floor, concrete cold through his jeans, ribbon in one hand, locket in the other—what did you do to me?—his breath fogging, the safe’s light blinking like an eye. Melody called down, “Con, dinner’s cold—coming?” her voice sharp but tired, and he rasped, “Yeah, in a minute,” hiding the ribbon, the scarf, Amanda’s echo—she can’t know, not yet, maybe not ever. Resentment ebbed—she’s not my chain—but Amanda stirred, a tide he couldn’t name.
Chapter 9: The Anchor’s Slow Rise
A year later, Connor sat in the garage, the safe’s door creaking open on rusty hinges, its contents spilling shadows across the concrete—sapphire dress folded inside, its velvet dulled by dust and fingerprints, rosewater faint like a whisper from a cracked vial he’d found in its folds. The fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on Liam, sprawled on the floor in a puddle of pretzel crumbs, flipping through Spider-Man #47, his soccer jersey streaked with mud from a slide-tackle win. “Peter’s cooler, Dad,” he muttered, crunching a pretzel, “no offense—he swings, you just sit.” His grin was lopsided, nine-year-old mischief, and Connor snorted, his frame hunched on the camp chair, legs jittering—he doesn’t see her, but he might, someday. Sophie perched beside him, cross-legged on a milk crate she’d dragged in, annotating Pride and Prejudice with a pencil stub, her chestnut braid swinging as she muttered, “Darcy’s a jerk ‘til he’s not, right, Dad? Like, pride, then—bam—human.” Her hazel eyes—his eyes—darted up, expectant, her room’s debate medals and diverse books—heroes he’d never had—glinting in his mind. “Takes time, kid,” he said, voice rough—she’s sharp, like I was. She shoved the book at him—“Do Darcy grumpy, Dad!”—and he did, her laugh a crack in his armor, Amanda stirring.
Melody was at a library fundraiser, her text pinging his cracked phone—“Have fun with the kids, love!”—a fragile trust he didn’t deserve, her 20-hour week no longer a sting—she’s carrying us too. They’d cooked together last week, the kitchen warm with chili steam, her hands chopping peppers, tired from sorting donations. “Long day,” she’d said, soft, and he’d nodded—she’s not coasting—resentment fading, Amanda’s lessons sinking in. He’d cracked a month ago, over coffee, the dishwasher humming, her hazel eyes soft over a chipped mug. “I’m lost, Mel,” he’d rasped, hands shaking, “job’s gone, I’m fraying—don’t know me.” Not Amanda—just a shard, raw and jagged. She’d squeezed his hand, her rings cold, voice steady—“We’ll find you, Con—I’m here when you’re ready.” He’d nodded—she’d run if she saw her—but tonight, he’d left a piece of Amanda for her to find, a poem—The Tide’s Thread, no veil named.
Tonight, he held the scarf, silk under his fingers—not shame, but a quiet pulse—the dress untouched, a dare he’d take another day. Liam flipped a page, Sophie scribbled, the garage a bubble of their noise—crumbs crunching, pencil scratching, his breath fogging—and he sat, Amanda’s echo a pulse he couldn’t shake. He thought of her at the quarry, her voice raw—“I stood on a ledge like this”—and realized she was the truest part of him, the one who saw him when no one else could, a soulmate he’d buried but now held close. With her, there was no hesitation, no fear of being seen—just a quiet, aching truth.
Melody walked in, snow dusting her coat, cheeks flushed, her fundraiser tote thudding to the floor—Books for Kids, its logo faded. She paused, eyes catching a folded paper on the workbench—the poem he’d left for her, The Tide’s Thread. “This yours, Con?” she asked, voice low, stepping closer, Liam and Sophie lost in their worlds, the bulb’s hum filling the gap. His throat tightened—she’ll never know you, not like Amanda does—and he nodded, raw. “Wrote it… for you. It’s… me, I guess.” Her gaze held, librarian-sharp, then softened. “It’s beautiful, Con—there’s more, isn’t there?” Her question was gentle, but he couldn’t answer fully, the weight of his solitude pressing down—I love her, but she’s not the one who’d understand. “Yeah, Mel… bit by bit,” he rasped, knowing this journey was his alone. She brushed his arm, warm—not her fault—and called, “Liam, Soph, bed!” their groans a chorus as they shuffled out, leaving him with the ache of a love he couldn’t fully share.
No job loomed—offers piled in his inbox, CFO roles, consulting gigs—he trashed them, the payout a cushion he didn’t hate—$8.3 million, stock up 25%. Dr. Ellis met him weekly in Manchester, her office a clutter of books—Jung, Woolf—and herbal tea steam, her voice a scalpel: “What’s Amanda to you, Connor? Enemy? Ally?” He stammered—ally, me, I’m learning—his notebook filling, The Velvet Anchor sprawling, a nomad wrestling his veil—she’s here. He read with Sophie, her Austen a mirror—Darcy’s not a jerk forever—his gruff voices steadying, her “You’re good, Dad” a balm. Liam dragged him to The Hobbit, couch sprawled, “Do Gollum creepy!” a demand he met, his hiss earning a giggle—he doesn’t see, but he might. Jen pushed—“Open mic at The Brew, read!”—and he did, The Silk Wanderer, voice shaking in a dim room, two dozen strangers clapping—they don’t know her, but they see me.
The locket rested in its drawer, spiral cold, a tale spun but not closed. Connor stood, Melody’s touch fading, Sophie’s “Night, Dad!” echoing, Liam’s pretzels a trail. He closed the safe, leaving it slightly ajar—she stays, but not caged. He prepared for bed, scarf under his shirt, silk burning. In the mirror, Amanda flickered—his eyes, softer now, a shared gaze. “We’re closer, aren’t we?” he whispered, voice steady, a question he could answer—I’m you, and you’re the one I can be real with. He wrote a page, hid it—the wanderer faced her, wore her—and lay awake, her tide rising, clear, shared, a spiral he’d trace with the quiet strength of knowing himself, even if no one else could.
Epilogue: The Tides Thread
By Connor, for Melody
The tide threads through me, a silver seam,
weaving through the life we’ve grown—
a porch swing creaking, dahlias at dawn,
your stories lighting our evenings like stars.
I wade, half-caught, in currents I’ve stilled,
a shadow I’ve tethered beneath my breath,
a murmur I’ve hushed in the quiet of night—
a piece of me, unspoken, I cannot voice.
You’ve held my hand, steady as a page,
through soccer games and bedtime tales,
your laughter a librarian’s song, warm as light—
yet I’ve drifted, a wave you cannot trace.
I’m sorry, my love, for the depths I’ve kept,
for the silence I’ve built when I ache to be near,
for the part of my soul I’ve held in the dark—
I long to be whole, but I fear the surge.
Your dahlias bloom where my words cannot grow:
you’ve loved me, even the tides I’ve restrained,
and as we walk this shore, hand in hand,
I’ll seek my light, to shine for you, someday.
—Connor, who longs to be whole
The tide threads through me, a silver seam,
weaving through the life we’ve grown—
a porch swing creaking, dahlias at dawn,
your stories lighting our evenings like stars.
I wade, half-caught, in currents I’ve stilled,
a shadow I’ve tethered beneath my breath,
a murmur I’ve hushed in the quiet of night—
a piece of me, unspoken, I cannot voice.
You’ve held my hand, steady as a page,
through soccer games and bedtime tales,
your laughter a librarian’s song, warm as light—
yet I’ve drifted, a wave you cannot trace.
I’m sorry, my love, for the depths I’ve kept,
for the silence I’ve built when I ache to be near,
for the part of my soul I’ve held in the dark—
I long to be whole, but I fear the surge.
Your dahlias bloom where my words cannot grow:
you’ve loved me, even the tides I’ve restrained,
and as we walk this shore, hand in hand,
I’ll seek my light, to shine for you, someday.
—Connor, who longs to be whole
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