Where The Quiet Lives Now

This story contains substance abuse and recovery, reference to overdose, mental health struggles, and illudes to suicidal ideation.

The morning started, as it always did, with the clatter of an old percolator sputtering to life like it was coughing up secrets. Riven Mirewood padded into the kitchen, hardwood cold against their feet, and flipped on the overhead light. The bulb buzzed before settling into a low, reluctant glow. Outside, the sky still wore its midnight blue. The neighborhood was quiet but for the long, familiar call of a mourning dove in the cedar tree by the fence.

They pulled two mugs from the cabinet, the chipped blue ones Walter liked best, and set them beside the stove. The oatmeal simmered with soft pops, the smell of cinnamon blooming into the space. Riven stirred absently, flipping through their planner: Library board meeting. Budget proposal. "Request: Orwell + Baldwin pairing?" circled twice in blue pen.

Walter entered with the slow, heavy rhythm of a man who’d worked on his feet since Reagan was pretending to be God. He didn’t speak, just made his way to the chair by the window, unfolded the union bulletin, and let the exaggerated crackle of paper punctuate the silence. Same chair. Same bulletin. Same scowl. Familiarity masquerading as peace.

"You forgot your lunch yesterday," Riven said.

Walter grunted. "Ate a stale donut. Someone left a box on the loading dock."

"Was it from that place that got shut down for mold?"

He shrugged. "I’ve had worse."

They shared a look across the steam of oatmeal and burnt coffee. A long, quiet look, full of history. Of agreements made without speaking. Of twenty-nine years of mornings like this.

Riven slid a bowl in front of him, pinched a bit of salt on top like always, and sat across from him. The planner stayed open between them like a shared map they were too tired to read. The radio hummed in the background, static-laced weather reports and headlines everyone already knew.

Karlie texted at 8:15. Court ran long yesterday. Call you later. Love you both. Riven held the screen out to Walter, who nodded once. The small upward twitch at the corner of his mouth could’ve been a smile.

"She’s still checking in," Riven said.

Walter made a noise that might’ve meant yes, or nothing.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, but the edge of light brushing the kitchen window gave the illusion it might. Riven reached for their pen, flipped to Saturday’s page, and underlined Visit Marlo – 11:00 three times.

Marlo had been in rehab three weeks. The third time. The first she’d gone without being nudged, begged, or broken into it. She’d arrived barefoot at Karlie’s apartment, mascara streaked to her jaw, shaking so badly she couldn’t hold a glass of water. Karlie had called Riven in that strange voice she used for emergencies—flat, even, as if steadiness could ward off catastrophe. "She’s here. She’s bad, but she came."

Two days later, Marlo walked herself into the intake center with a backpack and a paperback copy of The Bell Jar tucked under one arm. Riven had stood beside her but hadn’t followed. She’d kissed both their cheeks and said, "I want to try. I’m just not promising anything."

Riven had nodded. "Trying is all we have."

And it mattered. It mattered every damn day.

The sunroom had become a shrine to her absence. Her old guitar leaned against the window seat. Shelves held fantasy novels she used to annotate with stars and exclamation points in purple gel pen. A Polaroid of her and Karlie at the county fair — sticky-fingered and wild-eyed. Riven had cleaned the space once. Not to erase her, but to prepare it. Just in case.

At night, they wrote letters. Sometimes full pages, sometimes just a line.

You were born during a snowstorm. The power went out, and we held you in candlelight. Karlie used to sing to you when you had ear infections. She doesn’t remember, but you always did.

They stacked them in a shoebox labeled Letters for Later and never expected to send them. Not yet.

A year ago, before this third attempt, Marlo had stayed with them between centers. It had been one of those false dawns — the ones that looked like hope but weren’t. She’d been pale and thin, skittish in her skin, but smiling, sharp-tongued, still trying.

Riven had made tea while she unpacked. They brought it in quietly, stood in the doorway as Marlo sat cross-legged on her childhood bed, examining the posters she never took down.

"I forgot how small this room is," she said. "It felt huge when I was fifteen."

"You were dramatic when you were fifteen."

Marlo smirked. "I was theatrical. It’s different."

Her hand brushed the comforter. Navy cotton. Soft from so many washes. "You kept it the same."

"I didn’t know what else to do with it."

For a moment, she looked like she might say something important. Something that cost her. But she glanced away.

"You don’t have to keep rescuing me, you know," she said.

"I’m not rescuing you," Riven replied. "I’m just here. That’s different."

Marlo nodded, but she didn’t quite believe them. That night, Riven sat on the porch long after she’d gone to bed, watching moths fling themselves at the porch light. They held a pen in one hand, but the page stayed blank.

Friday came, and with it, Karlie.

She sat in her car in the driveway ten minutes before coming inside, fingers tight on the wheel, eyes scanning the siding like it might say something new. When she entered, Riven already had the kettle on. Jasmine. Her favorite.

Walter gave her a nod from the stove, spooning chili into bowls.

Karlie looked polished, like always — navy pantsuit, low bun, shoes clean despite the rain. But her eyes gave her away. Her jaw clenched. Her voice too level.

"Got another case," she said. "Seventeen. First offense. Minor possession. He didn’t even know what he had."

"They’ll still charge him with intent," Walter muttered.

Karlie nodded, eyes trained on the mug in her hands. "They want to make an example out of kids who can’t afford mistakes."

She went quiet. Then, without looking up: "I don’t know if I can keep doing this."

"You can," Riven said.

She looked at them, eyes red-rimmed. "I don’t know if I want to."

Walter passed her the chili. Riven refilled her tea. No one pushed. No one tried to solve it.

That night, Karlie stayed late. After Walter went to bed, she and Riven sat in the sunroom, the shoebox of letters untouched on the shelf behind them. Outside, rain tapped softly at the windowpanes.

"She’s going to die," Karlie said finally.

Riven didn’t answer.

"I can’t keep showing up like this. Pretending it’s fine when it’s not. I feel like—like I’m holding a thread, and every time I sleep, it frays more."

Riven reached over, took her hand. "You don’t have to hold it alone."

Karlie didn’t cry. She just leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

"You’re stronger than me," she said.

"I’m not. I’m just practiced."

Saturday morning, Riven made the drive to the rehab center. It sat behind a wide stretch of grass, the kind that looked freshly mowed no matter the season. The gravel crunched under their tires. Marlo waited in the garden, wrapped in a sweater that wasn’t hers, hair tied up in a messy knot that looked like it might unravel with a single strong wind. She smiled when she saw them, but it was the kind of smile that only pulled from one side — cautious, tired, but trying.

"You look like you’re sleeping more," Riven said as they walked.

Marlo gave a dry laugh. "That's what the medication’s for. And group therapy. And yoga." She rolled her eyes. "You ever try downward dog while detoxing? Cosmic joke."

They walked the gravel path circling the koi pond, a tiny oasis with lily pads that always seemed too clean to be real.

"They’re letting me journal again," she said. "At first I couldn’t. It made everything too loud. But now it’s like—less screaming. More whispers."

"What do the whispers say?"

"Mostly? Don’t fuck this up again. But nicer."

They walked in silence. The air smelled like damp earth and rosemary. Somewhere, a lawn mower buzzed.

"What about Karlie?" she asked.

"She’s hanging in."

Marlo nodded, then hesitated. "Does she hate me?"

"No."

"But does she want to?"

Riven looked at her. "Maybe. Some days. But that’s not the same."

Marlo stopped by the pond, watched the fish glide beneath the surface.

"Do you think I can do it this time?"

"I think you already are."

It was a half-truth. But sometimes, half-truths were the scaffolding you needed until the full ones could stand on their own.

The following Wednesday, Marlo missed her group call. No reply to texts. No voice memo. Riven tried not to spiral. Karlie didn’t speak about it, which meant she was spiraling faster.

By Thursday, still no word.

Walter stood outside on the porch most of the evening, smoking again for the first time in three months. He didn’t speak much anymore. He rarely had. But now, the silence had a different weight—less like privacy and more like grief trying not to look like fear.

Karlie stayed late again, pretending to work from the kitchen table but refreshing her messages every two minutes. The whole house waited.

Friday morning at 9:26, Marlo sent a voice message. Seventeen seconds. Riven played it once. Then twice.

"Hey. I didn’t use. I just—couldn’t talk yesterday. Or the day before. I don’t know why. I’m okay. Just sorry."

Riven played it a third time before forwarding it to Karlie. Karlie didn’t reply, but an hour later, she sent a thumbs-up emoji. Then: Thank you for not panicking. And a minute later: Even though I did.

That afternoon, Riven returned to the library. Fridays were light. Regulars came in for mystery novels and large-print biographies. Teens drifted in after school, half-hearted in their browsing, looking more for shelter than story.

A girl came in around four. Hoodie too big, sleeves chewed to bits. Nervous hands. She paced the YA section twice before approaching the desk.

"I need a book," she said, voice tight. "Something about someone who messes everything up but doesn’t die at the end."

Riven didn’t smile. Just nodded.

"Yeah," they said. "I’ve got a few."

They walked through the stacks. Riven pulled down a battered copy of We Are Okay, another of Dig.

The girl took them without a word. Her fingers trembled.

"Do you have a card?" Riven asked gently.

The girl hesitated. Then shook her head. "I can’t. I’m not… I don’t have the paperwork yet."

Riven paused, then checked the books out under their own account and slid them across the desk.

"They’re due back in two weeks," they said. "But take longer if you need to."

The girl stared. Then nodded. "Thanks."

As she turned to go, Riven said, "We have a quiet room in the back. If you ever just need a place to sit."

She didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no. She just left.

Later, Riven added her name to the planner margin: Girl w/ hoodie – maybe return? A maybe was still a kind of hope.

Saturday, they visited Marlo again. She looked better. Still tired, but not brittle.

They walked. Talked. Didn’t mention the silence from earlier in the week.

At the koi pond, Marlo said, "I almost left."

Riven didn’t flinch.

"I didn’t pack. I didn’t do anything. Just stood by the door and waited for a reason."

"What made you stay?"

"I remembered Karlie’s face the last time I OD’d. I remembered your voice."

"Which one?"

"The one that didn’t say anything."

Riven nodded. "That’s the only one I have left."

When Riven got home, the house smelled like tomatoes and onion. Walter had made stew. Karlie had arrived with garlic bread from the co-op and a bottle of cheap red wine she wouldn’t touch.

They ate at the kitchen table with the radio on low. Nina Simone again. Always Nina when they didn’t want to talk but didn’t want silence either.

Karlie leaned back, hair loose for once.

"Had lunch with Ava yesterday," she said suddenly.

Riven glanced up. "Oh?"

"She asked if I ever slept. I told her I nap during depositions. She said that wasn’t sustainable."

"Is it?"

"Definitely not. But I let her hold my hand for a bit. That helped."

Riven didn’t press.

Walter refilled their wine glass. "You should sleep more. You look like your mother when she worked night shift."

Karlie rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Dad."

He shrugged. "She was beautiful. Just tired all the time."

Karlie smiled into her glass. It wasn’t big. But it was real.

That night, Riven wrote another letter.

Today, we laughed at the table. Not all of us. But enough. You weren’t there, but you weren’t missing either. That’s a strange, good thing.

Two weeks later, Marlo moved to sober living. No clinic, no constant supervision. Just a curfew, shared chores, and a rented room with peeling wallpaper. She packed her own bag. She hugged Walter first, buried her face in the soft wool of his jacket and stayed there longer than she ever used to. Then Karlie, who looked like she might cry but didn’t. Then Riven last, arms around each other in the same careful, careful way they used to dance when Marlo was five and stood on Riven’s feet.

"Keep writing," Marlo said.

"I already am," Riven replied.

She waved once before heading up the steps. The door of the halfway house opened, someone greeted her, and then she was gone.

A letter came from her the following week.

Don’t freak out. I’m not a poet now.

I just wanted to say it feels like I’m not fighting the water every second. I still forget to breathe sometimes, but not all the time. That’s something, right?

Tell Walter I miss his silent grunts. Tell Karlie I’m sorry for the stuff I haven’t said yet.

Tell you, I’m trying. I think about that moment with the fish a lot. That you didn’t lie to me. That you let me believe a half-truth anyway. I needed that scaffolding. I still do.

Love,

M

Karlie won a case involving a fourteen-year-old accused of theft. The storeowner tried to get her charged as an adult. Karlie had stared the man down, torn his argument apart, and walked the girl’s mother out arm in arm. That night, she showed up at Riven’s again, hair unwashed, mascara smudged, holding two pints of ice cream like sacred offerings.

"I’m not staying," she said. "I just wanted to remember something good happened today."

Riven opened the door. "You don’t have to explain."

"I know." She paused. "That’s why I came."

They sat on the couch and didn’t turn on the TV. Just ate in silence while the dog next door barked in intervals, like it had something important to say.

Walter fixed the leaky faucet. Riven planted more winter greens. The chard took this time. The kale came in stronger.

At the library, the girl with the chewed sleeves came back. She didn’t speak, just nodded at Riven as she passed the desk. She returned Dig and picked up Eleanor Oliphant. When Riven offered to check it out again, the girl shook her head and quietly slid a library card across the counter.

It had her name on it. Just a first name, but it was something.

After she left, Riven added a note to the planner. Card made – 2/14. Still here.

The week after that, a group of high schoolers wandered in and asked Riven to help them find books for a banned book club they weren’t officially allowed to run. They whispered like it was rebellion. Riven gave them The Handmaid’s Tale, Fun Home, Stamped, Giovanni’s Room—slipped in one or two extras from their own shelf.

"Do we have to bring these back?" one asked.

"No," Riven said. "But if you do, I’ll give you more."

They left giggling and wide-eyed, their rebellion cradled in backpacks.

That night, Riven wrote another letter to Marlo. They didn’t put it in the box. They mailed it.

You would’ve loved the kids today. All spark and nervous purpose. They reminded me of you before the world bruised you so badly.

Your guitar’s still in the sunroom. I don’t think I’ll tune it. I think it’s perfect the way it is.

I miss you. But it’s not the heavy kind. Just the everyday kind. Like missing your own handwriting in a note you forgot you wrote.

Weeks passed. Some nights, the air still felt sharp. Some mornings, the silence still pressed too tightly around the edges. But sometimes—more and more—there was laughter in the kitchen. Sometimes Karlie dropped by just because. Sometimes Walter brought home pie from the diner. Sometimes Riven didn’t dream at all, and woke up surprised by the absence.

One afternoon in early spring, a girl walked into the library and asked for help.

"I need a book about someone who messes everything up but doesn’t die at the end."

Riven paused. The girl had nervous eyes and a chewed sleeve, like she’d almost turned around three times before walking in. Something about her made Riven ache in a place too deep to name.

They thought of Marlo. Of Karlie. Of the letters tucked in kitchen drawers, the long drives in the dark, the laughter that still bloomed in this house even when everything else had been scorched.

"Yeah," Riven said, voice warm and certain. "I’ve got just the thing."

They led the girl through the stacks, steps unhurried. Some stories didn’t end in triumph. But some ended in still here. And that, Riven had come to understand, was its own kind of miracle.