Things Left Behind | March - April

This journal was originally kept as a staff log—just a place to note what was blooming, what was broken, and who might be arriving early. But over the years, it’s become something more.

What you’ll find here are reflections from the people who keep Tiris Manor running: Mae, who oversees it all with quiet care; Lettie, who cooks like she’s feeding memory as much as guests; Nico, the painter in residence whose sketchbooks capture more truth than most conversations; and Ellis, the groundskeeper who rarely speaks, but fixes what needs fixing—often before anyone else notices.

We’ve decided to make these entries public. A way of saying: you were here. We were, too.

This place remembers.

We gathered at twilight under the first blooms in the north garden. Staff, guests, whoever happened to be here. Glasses in hand. Shoes sinking slightly into the soft ground.

Lettie laid out the lemon cakes on the garden table. Nico kept sketching until the light was too gold to catch. Ellis leaned against the arbor, arms crossed, watching the branches like they might say something if you listened hard enough.

When the blossoms finally caught the last of the sun, we raised our glasses. A small blessing spoken out loud, the kind you don't need to memorize to remember.

I said the words we say every year:

"To everything that dares to begin again. Grow wild. Grow stubborn. Grow in the light that's given."

The couple from Room 5, who hadn't planned on attending, looked at each other and smiled—a kiss, small and sure, like they'd been caught in something bigger than themselves for just a moment.

The branches above us stirred. And spring, once again, moved forward.

Baked three lemon cakes this morning. One for the staff, one for whoever’s staying over, and one for luck.

Mae brought up the old glass flutes from the cellar. Ellis polished them without being asked. Nico’s already sketched half the garden twice over, like he’s trying to catch the exact way the light falls through the branches before it changes again.

We don’t make a big fuss. No invitations, no ceremony. Just champagne under the first bloom when it’s ready. And it’s nearly ready.

The blossoms are showing now—white and stubborn against the last of the cold. Every year it feels like a small miracle. Every year it reminds me why we keep opening the doors, no matter how long the winters feel.

Spent the afternoon brushing off the chairs in the north garden. Some still tilt a little from the frost heave, but they’ll hold well enough for now.

Fixed the latch on the arbor gate. Re-strung the lights along the west wall. Wiped down the little brass bell that no one rings anymore but still catches the sun when it swings.

No one asked me to. Mae just looked out the window this morning and said, “Nearly time,” and that was enough.

First bloom's coming. You can feel it in the ground if you stop long enough to listen.

Sketched the north garden this morning. First buds on the pear branches—small and tight, but they’re there if you look hard enough.

Ellis says it's still too early to trust the weather, but I can feel it in the light. Softer now. The cold pulling back, slow and stubborn like a tide that doesn’t want to leave.

Mae and Lettie will start talking about the Blessing soon. They always do when the first real blooms show. Not a big thing—no invitations, no schedule posted on the hall board. Just whoever’s here when it happens, standing in the garden with a glass of champagne and a good coat.

Same as always. Same as it should be.

I kept thinking about the letter all day. About what it means to carry someone without carrying everything.

Somewhere between sorting keys and checking reservations, I remembered her. Not the woman who just left, but the first time she stayed. Years ago. Different season. Different life.

Room 3 has seen its share of guests—honeymooners full of plans, anniversary couples already half-packed for the next thing. She wasn’t like that. Even then, she moved through the halls like someone memorizing them. Someone determined to hold something.

She wore the same blue coat even then. He was with her—laughing, carrying too many bags. They asked Lettie if the lemon cake was a seasonal thing or if they'd just been lucky.

Some guests come to celebrate where they are. Some come to remember where they were loved best.

I opened the drawer this morning and found the letter from Room 3 still sitting where I'd tucked it. No dust, no creases new or old. Just waiting, like it had been part of the room all along.

The handwriting was careful. Not rushed, not afraid. Just sure. There was no greeting, no signature. Only one line, written across the center in a clear, steady hand:

“You are still with me. But I don’t have to carry everything to carry you.”

I read it once. Then again. And then I folded it carefully and set it in the bottom drawer, where we keep things that aren’t meant to be thrown away.

Most guests leave behind umbrellas or scarves forgotten in the rush. Some leave behind things they never meant to take with them in the first place.

Heavy rain overnight. Woke to gutters singing and the gravel paths washed clean down to their bones.

Ellis spent the morning shoring up the south porch steps where the wood had swelled and split. Nico sketched the garden from the window upstairs. Lettie made something with thyme and lemons again—something that made the whole house smell like patience.

I sorted mail and old receipts in the office. The letter from Room 3 stayed where I’d tucked it—in the top drawer, right corner. I didn’t open it. Not yet.

Sometimes it’s good to let a thing rest before you decide what to do with it.

Room 3 checked out early this morning. Quietly. No mess, no note at the desk. Just the keys left on the dresser, and the windows cracked open a finger-width to let the spring air in.

Everything was neat, but I could tell she moved through the room carefully. The kind of guest who folds the blankets back into shape even when no one asks her to.

There was a letter tucked into the drawer of the nightstand. Not addressed. Not hotel stationery. Just a folded piece of plain paper, worn soft at the corners like it had been read more than once.

I didn’t open it. That’s not my business. Some things are meant to stay folded until the right hands find them.

Mae’s set it aside in the office. Said she’d wait a few days. Just in case.

I was looking for an old ledger in the library when I found one of Nico’s sketches tucked between the pages.

It was a rough drawing—unfinished—but the posture caught me. A woman sitting in the north garden, her coat wrapped tight around her shoulders. Dark hair. Head bent just slightly, as if listening for something far off.

I didn’t recognize the face. Nico rarely draws them in until he’s sure. But the shape of her felt familiar. Not in a nameable way. Just... something about the way she held herself. Like she already belonged to the place she was sitting in.

I set it back where I found it. Some things aren’t ready to be finished yet.

I baked lemon cake this morning. No real reason. The kitchen just felt like it needed something warm in it.

One slice went up to Room 3 with the tea tray. I don't know if she'll eat it. Some guests do, some let it sit by the window until it sags.

The produce order was late again—second time this month. Ellis had to drive into town to pick up the missing greens. Mae spent most of the morning in the library, sorting through spring reservation notes.

Nico’s left another sketch on the breakfast bar. The south steps again, but drawn in a way that makes them seem steeper than they are. I tucked it into the drawer before it got smudged.

Quiet day. The kind that feels thinner at the edges, like a paper you've folded too many times.

A new guest checked in this afternoon. She pulled up in a silver sedan with New York plates, no fuss. One suitcase, one coat folded over her arm—a deep blue one with silver buttons, velvet at the collar.

She gave her maiden name at check-in. It’s not the first time I’ve seen that happen—sometimes people want to feel like themselves again, even if just for a few days.

She asked for Room 3 specifically. Said she remembered it had a view of the north garden. Not many guests request that room by number. Most ask for fireplaces or tub sizes. She just wanted the windows and the quiet.

Checked herself in, found her way upstairs without hesitation. Some guests move like they’ve already been here, even when they haven’t. Or maybe they have, and the house remembers better than I do.

No special requests. No dinner reservations. Just a note to have extra tea brought up in the mornings. And that blue coat, folded neatly over her arm, like it mattered more than the luggage.

The windows were opened today for the first time in months. Just a crack. Enough to let the heavy air slip out and the cold-soft scent of early spring slip in.

Lettie made breakfast for one guest—a man in Room 2 who’s here writing a travel piece. He’s polite enough, but keeps to himself. Nico sketched the south porch this morning and left his pencils on the stairwell, again. Ellis spent the afternoon repairing the gate latch that’s been loose all winter.

Nothing extraordinary. Just the small rhythms of the house waking up after too long asleep.

Still, there’s a feeling I can’t shake. Like someone’s walking the halls just out of sight. Not haunting. Just... remembering.

It’s good to let the house breathe. It's good to let ourselves breathe, too.