Chapter 12: The Panic and the Porch
The fluorescent light in the hallway buzzed like a trapped insect, its sickly glow staining the peeling linoleum a jaundiced yellow. Lily-Anne fumbled with her keys, the worn leather satchel slipping off her shoulder and thumping against her leg. Work had been a blur of dusty shelves and a cranky regular who argued about the price of a water-stained atlas. All she wanted was tea, her softest sweatpants, and the quiet safety of her four walls.
Then she saw it.
A small, rectangular parcel wrapped in plain brown paper sat squarely in the center of her doormat. No postage. No address. Just her first name, ‘Lily-Anne,’ written in a firm, clean hand with black ink.
Her heart did a hard, painful slam against her ribs. Her fingers went cold. It was too small for a bomb, her brain offered unhelpfully, but the irrational fear was a live wire. She clutched her keys between her knuckles, a pathetic urban weapon, and glanced down the empty hall. The cracked vending machine hummed. The security camera’s red light winked.
Swallowing hard, she bent and picked it up. It was light. Solid. Something shifted inside with a soft thunk. Not a bomb. A book, maybe?
Inside, with the door double-locked and chain engaged, she leaned against the wood and tore the paper. It wasn’t a book.
It was a duck.
A hand-carved wooden duck, about the size of her palm. Its body was smooth, sanded to a satin finish that felt like warm stone. The wings, though, were painted in delicate, sweeping strokes of soft blue and dusty green, the colors of a quiet pond at dusk. The detail was breathtaking—individual feathers suggested by gentle grooves, the head turned slightly as if in mid-paddle. It was simple, beautiful, and utterly earnest.
Beneath it lay a small, cream-colored card.
For your collection.
No pressure.
—M
Her breath left her in a rush. She slid down the door until she was sitting on the scratchy hallway carpet, the duck cradled in both hands. For your collection. He’d listened. He’d remembered the park, the duckies, her moment of unguarded softness. This wasn’t a flower or chocolates. It was an artifact of a specific, shared understanding. No pressure. He was reminding her of the off-ramp, the park bench acquaintance offer. He was giving her a gift that asked for nothing in return.
Tears welled, but they were warm this time. Not from shame, but from a feeling so foreign she barely recognized it: being seen, precisely and kindly, without demand.
She carried the duck into her bedroom, a sanctuary of soft blankets and fairy lights. On her nightstand, next to her worn, one-eared stuffed bunny Button, there was a perfect empty space. She set the wooden duck there. It looked right. It looked like it belonged.
Button, with his threadbare smile, seemed to approve.
She took a picture, the duck side-by-side with Button’s fuzzy foot, the fairy lights creating a halo of warm gold around them. She attached it to a text.
Lily-Anne: He needs a name.
She hit send before she could overthink it, then threw her phone onto the bed like it was on fire. She busied herself making tea, her whole body humming with a nervous energy. The ping came just as the kettle whistled.
Marcus: That was fast. He’s guarding Button, I see. Important work.
Lily-Anne: The most important. Name ideas are now your responsibility.
She took her tea to bed, curling under the duvet. Her phone lit up again.
Marcus: Formal or ridiculous?
Lily-Anne: Both. A full portfolio.
The next hour dissolved into a warm, giddy haze. His suggestions came in bursts.
Marcus: Formal: Lord Alistair Featherington of the Reedbeds.
Marcus: Ridiculous: Sir Quacks-a-Lot. Quackefeller. Duck Norris.
She giggled, pressing her face into her pillow. The sound was strange and delightful in her quiet room.
Lily-Anne: Duck Norris is vetoed. Too violent for the ambiance.
Marcus: Point taken. Ambient suggestions: Puddle. Ripple. Captain Bill.
Lily-Anne: Captain Bill feels like he has a pipe and a sad backstory.
Marcus: He does. He lost his favorite snail to a rogue wave.
She laughed again, harder this time, a snort escaping that made her clap a hand over her mouth. They volleyed names back and forth, the conversation weaving from ducks to the weird client at the bookstore to his struggle with a warped piece of cherrywood. It was easy. It was fun. It felt like… talking to a friend. A friend who somehow made the air in her chest feel lighter.
Lily-Anne: I think it’s Admiral Waddlebottom. It has dignity, but also a clear action plan.
Marcus: Admiral Waddlebottom it is. He’s been promoted. Please inform him of his new duties.
Lily-Anne: He says he’s honored and will defend the nightstand from dust bunnies with his life.
A comfortable silence settled between texts. She stared at the Admiral, his blue-green wings glowing in the soft light. Her fingers typed before her brain could censor.
Lily-Anne: Thank you for him. It was… a really kind thing to come home to.
She held her breath.
Marcus: You’re welcome, Lily-Anne. Get some sleep.
That was all. No push for more. No heavy expectation. Just a gentle close to the conversation.
She plugged her phone in, set it on the nightstand next to the Admiral and Button. She turned off the main light, leaving only the string of fairy lights casting their tiny constellations across the ceiling. She lay there, watching the shadows, one hand curled near her chin.
The stale-coffee anxiety of the hallway was gone. The dread of the next day, the next interaction, the next failure, felt distant, muffled. In its place was a simple, solid warmth in her chest, centered around the weight of a small, wooden duck and the memory of a conversation that made her laugh.
She fell asleep not with a clenched jaw, but with a faint smile. Her phone, on her nightstand, showed one final, unread message that had come through as she drifted off.
Marcus: The museum opens at 10 on Saturday. I’ll be there by 10:30, near the giant stuffed bear. If you decide to come, text me. If not, I hope you and the Admiral have a good day.