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.

I passed by the cedar closet today. The door was shut. Of course it was.

Ellis had folded the coat days ago—he didn’t say anything about it, but I knew. That kind of care doesn’t announce itself. It just… lingers.

So I didn’t touch it. I just lit the seasonal candle in the front hall. Lemongrass and earth. The same scent we always use when it’s time to mark the shift, when something has ended and something else is beginning.

A new guest arrives tomorrow. Room 5. She said she’s bringing books. Said she needs quiet. Said she’s hoping to feel less alone.

I hope she finds what she needs. But I’ve learned this: sometimes, what you need isn’t what you came for. Sometimes, it’s what you choose to leave behind.

I don’t post entries like this—not usually. But I think she meant for someone to read it. Maybe not right away. But eventually.

The note was folded into thirds. No envelope. No names. Just one line, handwritten in the softest script:

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

I folded it back up and put it in the drawer. Not lost. Just no longer needed to be carried.

I moved the coat to the cedar closet today. No one asked me to. Just felt like the right time.

It didn’t belong by the door. Didn’t belong in lost and found, either.

I folded it carefully. Silver buttons all lined up. It smelled like cold air and old paper. I didn’t shake it out—just placed it flat on the shelf next to an old quilt Mae keeps for winter guests. The kind no one ever asks for, but she can’t get rid of.

Not everything left behind is forgotten. Some things are just finished.

I was sketching the windows in Room 3 again. The afternoon light hits them differently in spring—longer, warmer. Not brighter. Just softer. Like something’s remembering you back.

I’ve drawn them before. I thought it was recent, but when I flipped back through old pads, I found the exact same angle—same shadows, same smudge of tree outside. The date in the corner said 2014.

There was a couple that week. I don’t remember names. But I remember the laugh from the hallway. The way she touched his sleeve when he wasn’t looking.

Sometimes I think we all leave a version of ourselves here, whether we mean to or not. A shape in the paint. A bend in the light.

I remembered her today. Not here. Not now. But once, years ago.

A woman in a blue coat. Laughing. Her husband trying to carry too many bags at once. Asking Lettie if we served lemon cake year-round, or if they were lucky.

Room 3. The one with the creaky windows and the view of the north garden.

They were so young. Or maybe just lighter than I feel now.

I think that’s why she came back. Not for the room, not even for him. For the feeling she thought she could find again, even for one night.

I checked the coat before moving it again. I don’t know why. I just felt like I should.

The letter was in the inside pocket. Folded once, sealed with a plain paper band. No name. Just a line written across the top in the smallest script:

“To you, as I first met you.”

I didn’t open it. Not then.

Some things aren’t meant to be read—they’re meant to be found. And maybe, gently, kept.

Her room was already made when I got there.

Bed tucked tighter than I ever leave it. Tray rinsed in the sink. Curtains drawn open just enough to let the morning in.

The lemon scent lingered too, faint under the usual polish. I wiped the counter anyway. Habit.

There was a folded paper on the nightstand. Not ours. Not hotel stationery either. I didn't touch it. It looked like it belonged where it was left.

Some guests leave more than luggage behind. They leave whatever they needed to let go of. You don’t always get to know what it is.

The studio door was locked, but the window was open. It was going to rain, so I climbed in.

I wasn’t expecting anything. Just checking that he hadn’t left brushes in the sink again. But there was a painting—propped up, half-covered in linen. I uncovered it, and there she was.

The woman in the blue coat. Nico had painted her before she arrived. Same posture, same buttons, same impossible stillness. Except—no face. Just a blur, like breath on glass.

I covered it again. He hasn’t asked about it. I haven’t told him I saw it.

Some things feel like they’re already gone, even when you’re standing right in front of them.

I started baking around six. There’s no one on the books, but the kitchen felt too still. I don’t like it when it’s that quiet. I grated lemon zest into the batter. It felt right, though I couldn’t say why.

I sliced the cake and left one piece aside. The rest went on the tray, though no one touched it.

Mae passed through and didn’t say anything. Just lingered by the stove. I think she smelled it too.

Some mornings, it’s like the house asks for something. And sometimes, you answer before you know the question.

She arrived just after sunset. No fuss. One suitcase. No reservation name I recognized, though the handwriting felt familiar somehow. She gave her maiden name. Some people do that, when they’re trying to feel like themselves again.

She wore a deep blue coat—velvet-collared, with silver buttons. Beautiful, but not showy. The kind someone once bought her because it reminded them of something—maybe winter. Maybe her.

She didn’t talk much. Said she was tired from the train. Refused help with her bag, said she remembered the way. And she did. Went straight to Room 3 like she’d never left it.

Stayed three nights. Quiet. Neat. She kept mostly to herself, though Lettie said she found her in the kitchen once, staring at the cupboards like she was trying to remember where something used to be.

On the morning of the fourth day, she was gone.

Suitcase, shoes, toothbrush. All gone.
Except the coat.

Hung neatly on the chair by the front door. Still buttoned. Not forgotten—left. I’m sure of it.

It’s not warm yet. Not really. But the air has shifted. The kind of shift you don’t name, or you’ll scare it off.

So I opened the windows. Not all the way. Just enough to let the house breathe. To stretch. I think it needed that.

Ellis is already out in the garden, patching something that doesn’t look broken. Lettie said nothing, just set a tea tray like someone was due to arrive.

Nico’s door was cracked. Light on. He’s painting again, I think. There was music coming from somewhere—something old and slow.

The Manor feels... aware. Like it’s waiting for someone. Or maybe just remembering something.

I picked up the guestbook this morning and didn’t open it. I don’t know why.
Some mornings, you just feel like leaving the past closed.

But the wind carried something sweet today, and I think we’re ready.
It’s a good day to begin again.