Chapter 5 - The Woman in the PhotographOn Friday afternoon, Julian found Avery in Natalie’s studio.
She wasn’t snooping. The door was open now, and the boys had asked to bring some of Natalie’s colored pencils downstairs. Avery stood before a wall of pinned sketches, holding one carefully between her fingers.
Julian paused.
“What is it?” he asked.
Avery turned. “Did Natalie design children’s books?”
The question caught him off guard.
“She wanted to,” he said. “Before the company grew. Before the boys. She had dozens of ideas.”
Avery looked back at the sketch.
It showed three fox cubs hiding inside a hollow tree while a storm raged outside. Above them stood a mother fox, soaked but smiling, holding the branches open.
The title at the top read: The House That Stayed Warm.
Julian’s throat tightened.
“She never showed me that one,” he said.
“There are more.”
Avery pointed to a folder on the desk.
Julian opened it with almost reverent caution. Inside were pages and pages of drawings. Foxes. Bears. Rabbits. Children in raincoats. Small creatures surviving big storms.
At the bottom of one page, Natalie had written:
For my boys, in case life feels too big.
Julian sat down hard in the chair.
Avery watched him carefully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”
He touched the page. “I thought I knew everything she left behind.”
“No one ever does.”
Julian looked at her. “You say things like someone who learned grief young.”
Avery’s expression closed slightly.
For the first time, Julian realized how little he knew about her beyond the file.
“You don’t have to answer,” he said.
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “My younger sister died when I was twenty.”
Julian’s face changed. “Avery.”
“Leah was sixteen. Car accident.” Avery looked toward the window. “Different from Natalie. Different circumstances. Same before and after.”
Julian said nothing.
Avery continued, voice steady but distant. “After she died, our house became a museum of what we lost. My mother stopped going into Leah’s room. My father stopped coming home. People brought casseroles for two weeks and then vanished. Everyone wanted us to get better quietly.”
Julian felt the words move through him.
“I got a job at a community childcare center because kids were the only people honest enough to say grief was unfair,” Avery said. “They asked questions adults were afraid of. Where did she go? Why did it happen? Are you still a sister if your sister is gone?”
Her fingers tightened around the sketch.
“So when I wrote that I wasn’t afraid of sad houses,” she said, “I meant it.”
Julian stood slowly.
He wanted to comfort her, but something in her posture warned him not to make her pain about his desire to help.
Instead, he said, “Leah.”
Avery looked at him.
“Your sister’s name was Leah.”
Her eyes filled instantly.
People often said I’m sorry.
Almost no one said the name.
Avery nodded.
Downstairs, the boys began shouting about missing crayons.
She wiped quickly beneath one eye. “I should go before someone colors the dog.”
Julian almost smiled. “We don’t have a dog.”
“With your sons, Mr. Harlow, that is not a guarantee.”
She left the room.
Julian stayed behind, surrounded by Natalie’s unfinished stories and Avery’s revealed grief.
On the desk, beneath the folder, he noticed a sealed envelope.
His name was written on it.
Julian’s heart slammed once.
He lifted it carefully.
The handwriting was Natalie’s.
For Julian, when you finally open this room.
His hands shook.
For almost a minute, he could not break the seal.
Then he heard the boys laughing downstairs.
Avery’s voice rose among them.
May you like
Warm. Firm. Alive.
Julian opened the letter.
