Chapter Text
“Can you grab me one of those boxes?” Zosia asked her sister, nudging the shelf with her elbow. “I want to take these books home, if that’s okay.”
Joanna followed her gaze. “Oh no. Not the Wycaro books.”
“Yes, the Wycaro books.”
“I still don’t understand what she liked about them so much,” Joanna said. “They’re all brooding stares and dramatic kissing. It’s exhausting.”
Zosia smiled to herself. “We don’t have to understand it. Babcia liked them, and that’s enough.” She slid one book free, the spine soft and cracked from rereading. “Besides, if she went through these books this many times, something must’ve been working.”
She studied the authors photo on the back. Blond. Intense blue eyes. An expression that suggested mild irritation with the entire concept of publicity. “Okay,” she said. “I might read one. Just to see.”
Joanna laughed. “You’re going to hate it.”
“Probably.”
They taped up the final box and carried it outside. The van was already packed to the roof, stuffed with furniture, photo albums, old sweaters that still smelled faintly of mothballs and the perfume her grandma always used to wear. The door slammed shut with a dull finality.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Zosia leaned against the van and gave the house one last look. “Goodbye, babcia,” she said quietly. “Thank you for everything.”
Joanna slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We really did have some good times here, didn’t we?”
“We did,” Zosia said, her voice cracked.
Joanna broke the moment with a laugh. “Remember those neighbors? The ones with the cute son?”
Zosia groaned. “Please don’t.”
“He followed you around like a lost puppy. I was so jealous.”
“You could’ve had him,” Zosia replied. “He was annoying and smelled like Axe.”
She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“No, honey,” Zosia smiled faintly. “I’m gay. That’s something else entirely.”
Joanna gave her a sideways look, amused. “Yeah. That became pretty obvious.”
Zosia took a slow breath.
“Okay. Let’s go put all of this in storage.”
——
The drive passed mostly in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rattle of boxes in the back. By the time they reached the storage facility, the sky had begun to dim, washed in pale oranges and gray.
They worked without much talking, they hauled box after box down narrow corridors and into storage.
After thirty boxes, two arguments about how to stack them, and a lot of sore muscles, they finally locked the metal unit.
“That’s enough for one day,” Joanna said.
Zosia nodded. “Definitely enough.”
——
At home, Zosia lined the Wycaro books up on her coffee table and stared at them like they might explain themselves if she waited long enough. It would probably be easier than reading.
She already knew the type. Heteronormative nonsense where the man swoops in to save the woman from herself because apparently she’s been doing life wrong this whole time. Sword fights. Brooding glances. Emotional repression marketed as romance.
Still, babcia loved them.
Zosia picked one up and turned it over, studying the authors photo again.
Cute, she decided.
She made herself a cup of tea and stretched out on the couch. With a sigh that was half-curiosity, half-resignation, she opened the book.
Chapter One
Lucasia knew she would not slumber tonight. The angry moonsburn creeping up her forearms and hands was excruciating. To think, scant seconds beneath the emerald light of the twin moons had brought this wrath upon her. Before the Sickness, she had basked freely in their radiance, resplendent in their glow…
Zosia blinked.
“Well miss Sturka,” she muttered to the empty room, “you definitely know your way with words.”
She read on. The prose was dramatic. Lush. Slightly unhinged. By page twenty she snorted aloud. “Oh come on. Nobody talks like that.”
And yet, she kept turning pages.
Somewhere around chapter five, one empty mug of tea, and her second glass of wine, she was emotionally invested and mildly ashamed of it.
“Don’t you dare hurt him!” she whispered. “I swear to God.”
She froze.
Then she laughed softly, shaking her head. She sounded exactly like her grandmother.
Babcia used to talk about the Wycaro characters the way other people talked about neighbors or old friends. Lucasia had been ‘too stubborn for her own good’. Raban was ‘hopeless, but charming’.
She used their names casually, fondly, like she expected them to show up for coffee one day.
Zosia swallowed.
She remembered a time, years ago, when her grandmother had been quiet for weeks. Not sad exactly, just…dimmer. Her mother had explained it carefully, in the way adults do when they don’t want children to worry.
Looking back now, Zosia understood. Whatever had been weighing on her, these books had been an escape. A place to go when real life became too heavy.
She reached for the next book and opened the cover.
Inside was an inscription:
Keep the winds at your back!
Carol Sturka
Zosia stared at it.
“Oh,” she murmured, smiling despite herself. “I guess you’ve met her.”
On impulse, she grabbed her phone and opened Instagram.
Search: Carol Sturka
There she was. Verified. Polished. Professional headshots and book marketing.
But three posts down was a blurry photo from a signing, her smile crooked, hair falling out of its careful arrangement, one hand wrapped too tightly around a plastic cup.
The caption read: ‘Tour life. Glamorous.’
Zosia smiled. Maybe not as untouchable as she pretended.
She kept scrolling.
Carol’s captions were dry in a way that felt calculated.
'Thrilled to be awake.' Under a 7 AM airport photo.
'Living the dream.' Beneath a stack of tour schedules.
But in the comments, she softened.
She remembered people’s names. Asked about their dogs. Told one girl not to apologize for crying at a signing.
That wasn’t branding. That was effort.
Zosia felt something shift, small but undeniable.
Before she could overthink it, she opened her DMs.
Hi Carol,
You don’t know me, and this might sound a bit strange, but I wanted to thank you. My grandmother was a huge fan, probably your biggest. She passed away last month, and I inherited her Wycaro collection.
I found one book you signed for her. I’m pretty sure that must have been one of the best days of her life.
She always said she picked up Wycaro in the first place because the pirate reminded her of me. I don’t see it, but I do find that funny.
Anyway, thank you for making her happy. It meant more than you probably know.
Zosia
She hit send and stared at the screen already regretting this decision.
“Perfect,” she muttered. “Drunk-texting authors at midnight. Peak maturity.”
She wasn’t drunk. Not really. But she knew she wouldn’t have done this if she’d stuck with tea instead of pouring a second, rather large, glass of wine.
Zosia locked her phone, set it face-down on the table, and got up. “Okay.” she said to herself. “That’s enough emotional honesty for one day.”
She stumbled into bed.
As she drifted off, one last thought slipped through her mind.
Her eyes really are very blue though.
----
The next morning, Zosia woke up sore in places she’d forgotten existed.
Her shoulders throbbed from lifting boxes. Her head pulsed faintly. Wine hadn’t helped. Grief hadn’t either.
Aspirin. Shower. Coffee strong enough to qualify as punishment.
By the time she sat at the kitchen table, she felt almost human.
Out of habit, her fingers reached for her phone.
Instagram. A notification blinked at her.
For a brief, blissful second, Zosia forgot about the DM she sent Carol Sturka. Carol “blue eyes” Sturka.
"Oh dear God. I really need to stop drinking.”
She opened the message.
Dear Zosia,
I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother.
I hope my stories will give you some peace of mind during this difficult time.
Carol Sturka
Professional, she thought. Polite. Measured. Like someone who chose her words carefully.
Exactly what you’d expect from a famous author responding to a stranger who slid into her DMs at one in the morning.
Zosia blinked. Swallowed. And, of course, hit reply.
Thank you for your kind words.
And who knows, maybe you’ll gain a fan.
She sent it, immediately second-guessing herself, and then decided it didn’t matter. Life was short, and babcia would have told her to ‘just enjoy the absurdity of it’.
Phone safely stowed in her bag, she grabbed her keys and stepped outside.
The chill morning air hit her face, clearing the last fog from her head. She sighed, mentally bracing herself for the day, and pushed open the door to her record store.
The familiar chime of the bell greeted her, along with the comforting smell of vinyl and dust.
For a few minutes, she walked through the aisles, letting the routine ground her.
Then her phone buzzed again.
She fished it out of her bag.
It was another message from Carol.
If that happens, you are more than welcome at one of my upcoming book readings.
Zosia froze, phone hovering mid-air. Her brain stuttered, trying to process what she had just read. She blinked. Slowly.
“Well,” she muttered to the empty store, “that escalated quickly.”
Without overthinking, she pulled up her browser and Googled Carol Sturka.
The official website popped up. Loads of purple, very much on-brand.
She scrolled, scanning through upcoming events, book signings and readings.
There it was. A reading in two weeks. Just an hour’s drive from her apartment.
Her stomach flipped. Should I?
Her rational side argued. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s awkward.
The other side however, the one babcia would have recognized instantly, smirked. Zosia, you’ve never been good at doing things that are normal. Just go. She would say.
She sat down on the edge of her counter, chewing her lip. Could she justify it? Sure. Support the arts, honor her grandmother’s memory, meet the person who had brought so much happiness into babcia’s life.
And she found herself smiling.
Yeah, this is probably a terrible idea.
I should go.