Chapter 10 The Laboratory of Lost Things

POV:Wren

The restoration lab smelled like home.

Not her apartment above the bookstore. Not the house she'd grown up in. Not even the Seattle workshop she'd left behind. But home in the way only a specific combination of scents could be—alcohol wipes and aged leather, cedar dust and faint mineral spirits, the clean metallic bite of surgical steel.

Wren stood in the doorway, her bag still cutting into her shoulder, and breathed it in. Let it fill her lungs. Let it steady the trembling in her hands.

Dr. Webb had steadied her in the hallway, guided her here after her knees buckled. After he'd said those impossible words: “He still loves you. And that's what's killing him.”

She couldn't think about that now. Couldn't let herself hold that sentence up to the light and examine it. Not when her chest still felt cracked open. Not when she could still hear Jonah's voice saying Ms. Blackwood like she was a stranger.

So she focused on the lab instead.

It was beautiful. Truly, achingly beautiful. The kind of space she used to dream about when she and Jonah were young and stupid and thought they could build a life together in this town.

Wide tables with smooth surfaces. Windows that let in natural light without the harsh glare that damages delicate specimens. Climate control that hummed so quietly she had to strain to hear it. Shelves lined with tools—scalpels and forceps, brushes in every size, glass eyes arranged by color and diameter like a jeweler's collection.

"He built this for you," Webb said quietly behind her.

She turned. "What?"

"Not specifically for you." Webb stepped into the lab, his cardigan catching the morning light. "But he always said—when we were planning the renovations—that the taxidermist should have the best workspace in the building. That restoration was an art that deserved respect."

Her throat closed. "He said that?"

"More than once." Webb moved to one of the tables and set down a clipboard. "He has very particular opinions about how specimens should be treated. About the difference between preservation and resurrection."

“Resurrection.” The word hung between them.

"I don't—" Wren started, then stopped. Started again. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Work here?"

“Be here. With him. Knowing he—” Her voice broke, the words refusing to be spoken. She couldn’t say it, couldn’t echo Webb’s truth from the hallway, because giving it voice would make it real.

Webb was quiet for a moment. Then: "May I tell you something?"

She nodded.

"When I lost my wife—Sarah—five years ago, I was angry." His voice was steady but soft. "Not at her. In the universe. God, if such a thing exists. Time itself continued when I wanted it to stop."

Wren waited. Listened.

"And the anger," Webb continued, "was easier than the grief. Easier than admitting I still loved her even though she was gone. Easier than sitting with the fact that love doesn't end just because the person does."

He looked at her then, his brown eyes kind and knowing.

"Jonah is angry," he said simply. "Because anger is a wall. And walls are safer than doors."

Before Wren could respond—before she could ask what that meant or how she was supposed to live with it—Webb gestured to the far corner of the lab.

"Come. Let me show you what you'll be working on."

---

The crates were stacked carefully, each marked with the museum's seal and stamped with red letters: FRAGILE. HANDLE WITH CARE. NEW ACQUISITION.

Webb pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and handed another to Wren. She slipped them on, her hands still trembling faintly. Yet the familiar weight steadied her — muscle memory, routine, the quiet reassurance of practiced motions.

"This collection," Webb said as he carefully pried open the first crate, "arrived three days ago. Anonymous donation. Very unusual terms."

"What kind of terms?" Wren moved closer, professional curiosity overriding the grief still lodged in her chest.

"The benefactor insisted on anonymity. No name. No acknowledgment. Just a single stipulation—that the collection be restored and displayed within six months."

Six months. The same length as her contract.

Webb lifted the first layer of protective padding. Beneath it, wrapped in acid-free tissue, was a bird.

Even through the tissue, Wren could see the shape. Small. Delicate. She reached out instinctively, then caught herself. "May I?"

"Please."

She unwrapped the tissue with careful fingers. And her breath caught.

A hummingbird. Ruby-throated. Male, judging by the deep crimson gorget. The preservation was extraordinary — whoever had prepared the specimen more than a century ago had been a master of the craft. The iridescent feathers still shimmered with color: green and gold, and that impossible red that seemed to shift and burn in the light.

But it was damaged. One wing bent at an unnatural angle. The tail feathers were crushed. The glass eyes clouded with age.

"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, you poor thing."

"Can you save it?" Webb asked.

Wren turned the bird carefully, examining the damage from every angle. "Yes. It'll take time, but I can. The bone structure is intact. The feathers can be realigned. The eyes were replaced." She looked up. "This is—Dr. Webb, this is museum-quality work. Whoever did this original preservation knew what they were doing."

"There are forty-three more specimens in these crates," Webb said. "All birds. All from the same time period—1880s, based on the initial assessment. All in various states of damage."

Forty-three. Wren's mind reeled. That was months of work. Careful, painstaking, precise work.

"Who—" she started to ask, but Webb was already opening another crate.

This one held a larger bird. A hawk, wings spread in eternal flight. And another—a sparrow, tiny and perfect except for the missing foot.

She moved from crate to crate as Webb opened them, cataloging damage in her mind. Water stains here. Insect damage there. Feathers that needed to be cleaned, repaired, or replaced. Eyes that had gone milky with time. Mounts that had warped or cracked.

It was overwhelming. Beautiful and overwhelming.

And then she saw the labels.

Small tags tied to each specimen with thread that had gone brown with age. Handwritten in careful script. Not just species names and dates, but coordinates. Latitude and longitude are marked in faded ink.

"These locations," Wren said, leaning closer to read one. "They're—"

"Local," Webb finished. "We noticed that too. At least a dozen of these specimens were collected within fifty miles of Cascade."

She picked up another tag. Coordinates. A date: September 12, 1887. Species: Archilochus colubris. Ruby-throated hummingbird. The same species she'd just unwrapped.

And then she saw the marking.

Tiny. Almost invisible. Carved into the wooden base of the mount. Two letters: E.B.

Her hand went still. Her pulse picked up.

"Dr. Webb," she said slowly. "Have you seen this?"

He came to stand beside her. Looked where she was pointing. "The initials?"

"Yes."

"We've seen them in several pieces. We assumed they were the collector's mark. Or perhaps the taxidermist's."

Wren's mind was racing. E.B. Elias Blackwood. Her great-great-grandfather. The family naturalist. The man her grandmother had mentioned once or twice in stories that always ended too soon.

But that was impossible. Wasn't it?

"What is it?" Webb asked, watching her face.

"I—" She stopped. Started again. "My family. The Blackwoods. We had—my great-great-grandfather was a naturalist. Here. In Cascade. In the 1880s."

Webb went very still. "His name?"

"Elias." The word tasted like old paper and secrets. "Elias Blackwood."

The silence that followed was heavy. Webb looked at the crates. At the specimens. At the initials carved into the base.

"You didn't know," he said. Not a question.

"No." Her voice came out rough. "I had no idea this—that his collection—how is this possible?"

"The anonymous donation," Webb said slowly, thinking aloud. "The stipulation about restoration. The timing of your hiring."

They looked at each other.

"Someone wanted you here," Wren whispered.

"Someone who knew," Webb agreed.

Before either of them could say more, a sound came from the doorway. A throat clearing. Deliberate.

Wren turned.

A woman stood there. Late twenties, curvy, her dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Brown eyes met his — sharp, assessing, impossible to ignore. The badge at her chest read: SAGE ORTIZ — EDUCATION COORDINATOR. But it was her gaze, not the title, that carried weight.

And she was looking at Wren like she'd found something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe.

"Dr. Webb," Sage said, her voice professionally pleasant but with an edge that could cut glass. "I hate to interrupt, but Jonah—Director Raines—needs to see you in his office."

Webb glanced at Wren. Then back to Sage. "Of course. I'll be right there."

Sage didn't move. Just kept looking at Wren. Measuring. Judging.

"You're the new taxidermist," she said, her tone even, but her eyes held a quiet challenge – curious, guarded, and not entirely welcoming.

.

"Yes." Wren set the hummingbird down carefully. "Wren Blackwood."

"I know who you are."

The words landed like stones. Four words that said: I know what you did. I know who you hurt. I know you don't belong here.

Webb stepped between them, his body language diplomatic but firm. "Sage, why don't you show Ms. Blackwood where the break room is? I'm sure she could use some coffee after her morning."

"Of course," Sage said, but her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Follow me, Ms. Blackwood."

The way she said the name—formal, distant, mocking—made it clear she knew exactly what had happened in Jonah's office.

Wren followed her out of the lab, leaving Webb with the crates and the birds and the impossible mystery of her great-great-grandfather's collection.

The hallway felt longer now. Colder. Sage walked quickly, her steps sharp on the tile.

"So," Sage said without turning around. "How long are you planning to stay?"

"I have a six-month contract."

"Six months." Sage stopped at a door marked STAFF. Turned to look at Wren directly. "That's funny. You didn't last that long the first time."

Wren's chest tightened. "Look, I don't know what Jonah told you—"

"He didn't tell me anything," Sage interrupted. "He doesn't talk about you. Ever. Which is how I know exactly how much you hurt him."

"I didn't—"

"You left." Sage's voice was quiet now. Deadly quiet. "You left without a word. Without a reason. And he spent 10 years—10 years—thinking it was his fault. Thinking he'd done something wrong. Thinking if he could just figure out what, maybe you'd come back."

Wren couldn't breathe. "I didn't know—"

“Of course you didn’t know.” Sage pushed open the break-room door. “Because you weren’t here.”

The break room was small: a table, a few chairs, an industrial coffee maker worn from use, and a refrigerator humming steadily in the corner.

Sage gestured to the coffee. "Help yourself. Dr. Webb takes his black. Jonah—Director Raines—take his with one sugar, but you probably remember that."

She did. God help her, she did.

"Sage—"

"Save it." Sage held up one hand. "I don't want to hear your reasons. I don't want to hear about how hard it was or how scared you were or whatever justification you've built. The only thing I care about is that he's happy. Finally, after years of putting himself back together. And you—"

She stopped. Drew a breath. When she spoke again, her voice was measured, though it trembled at the edges.

"You don't get to break him again," Sage said. "Do you understand me? You work here. Fine. You do your job. You restore your birds. But you stay away from him. You don't make this harder than it already is."

"I'm not trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." Sage stepped closer. She was shorter than Wren, but at that moment, she felt ten feet tall. "I've watched him build a life. I've watched him become someone who doesn't flinch every time a door opens, hoping it's you. And I will not watch you destroy that."

Wren wanted to argue. Wanted to explain. Wanted to say that she was broken too, that she'd spent ten years carrying this, that coming back was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

But Sage's eyes were fierce and loyal and full of a love that wasn't romantic but was just as powerful—the love of someone who'd watched a friend suffer and refused to let it happen again.

"I understand," Wren said quietly.

"Good." Sage turned toward the door. Stopped. "And for what it's worth, the collection is impressive. Your work in Seattle was some of the best I've seen. That's the only reason I'm not fighting your hire."

Then she was gone, leaving Wren alone in the break room with the coffee maker and the weight of everything she'd lost.

---

She didn’t know how long she stood there. Minutes. Perhaps longer. The coffee maker burbled. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere down the hall, she heard voices—museum opening, visitors arriving, life continuing.

When she finally made her way back to the lab, Dr. Webb was waiting. He'd laid out several specimens on the main table. The hummingbird. The hawk. A small warbler with a broken neck mount.

"I thought," he said gently, "you might want to start with something small. Something manageable."

Wren looked at the hummingbird. At the bent wing. The crushed tail. The clouded eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Of course."

"Do you think—" She stopped. I tried again. "Do you think some things are too broken to fix?"

Webb was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I think everything deserves the attempt."

She picked up the hummingbird. Turned it in her gloved hands. I felt the weight of it. The history. The damage.

"Where do I start?"

Webb handed her a scalpel. A brush. A small jar of solvent. "The same place you always start. With what can be saved."

She set the bird on the work surface. Positioned the light. Let her hands—still trembling slightly but steadier now—begin the familiar work.

Behind her, Webb moved with deliberate care around the lab, arranging tools and making notes. He wasn’t just giving her space — he was holding it open for her, steady as a promise.

And for the first time since she'd walked into the building that morning, Wren felt something other than grief.

Purpose. Small and fragile as the bird beneath her hands, but real.

She was just removing the damaged wing when she noticed something else. Something she'd missed before in her initial examination.

Tucked beneath the bird's base, hidden in the groove where the mount met wood, was a small piece of paper. Folded. Yellowed with age.

With careful forceps, she extracted it. Unfolded it slowly, afraid it might crumble.

The handwriting was old-fashioned. The ink faded. But the words were still legible:

For those with eyes to see—the truth begins here.

Her hands went still. Her heart hammered.

"Dr. Webb?" Her voice sounded strange. Tight.

He came to her side immediately. "What is it?"

She showed him the note.

Webb read it. Then his gaze shifted to the other specimens on the table.

"We need to check them all," he said quietly.

They worked together, carefully examining each bird, each base, each hidden corner. And in three more specimens, they found them. More notes. More messages.

What was lost can be found.

The collection remembers.

Elias Blackwood—betrayed but not broken.

Wren's pulse was racing now. This wasn't just a collection. This was something else. A puzzle. A message sent across time.

"Someone hid these," she whispered. "Someone wanted them found."

"Or someone wanted you to find them," Webb said.

She looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"The anonymous donation. You're hiring. Your family connection." Webb gestured to the notes, to the birds, to the initials carved in wood. "This collection came back to Cascade now, when you came back. That's not a coincidence."

Wren's mind reeled. "But who—"

The door to the lab opened. Both of them turned.

It wasn't Sage this time.

It was Jonah.

He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. Professional mask firmly in place. But his eyes—God, his eyes—kept flicking to Wren before darting away, like looking at her hurt.

"Dr. Webb," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I need the initial assessment report for the board. They're asking about the timeline."

"Of course." Webb moved toward his desk.

Jonah didn't leave. Didn't come in further. Just stood there, occupying space, filling the room with tension.

Wren kept her eyes on the hummingbird. Kept her hands busy. Pretended the air wasn't electric. Pretended her heart wasn't trying to break out of her chest.

"Ms. Blackwood," Jonah said.

Formal. Distant. Exactly what he'd promised.

She looked up. "Yes?"

"How is the initial assessment?" Still professional. Still cold.

"Extensive damage," she said, matching his tone. "But salvageable. Most of it. I'll need—I'll need time, but I can restore them."

He nodded. Once. Sharp. "Good. That's what we hired you for."

That's what we hired you for. The words were meant to sting. They did.

"Timeline?" he asked.

"Six months. If I work steadily."

"Six months." Something flickered across his face. Too fast to read. "Your contract length."

"Yes."

The silence stretched. Webb’s gaze shifted between them, his expression shadowed with concern.

"Fine," Jonah said finally. "Keep detailed records. Document everything. The board will want progress reports."

"Of course."

He turned to leave. Got two steps into the hallway. Then stopped.

Wren held her breath.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Rougher. "The hummingbird."

"Yes?"

"That was always your favorite." Not a question. A statement. A memory he hadn't meant to let slip.

Her hands tightened on the scalpel. "Yes."

He didn't turn around. Didn't look at her. "It deserves care. They all do. But that one—" He stopped. Started again. "That species is fragile. Easy to damage further if you're not careful."

"I know," she whispered.

"Good."

Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded completely.

Wren set the scalpel aside before her hands betrayed her. She drew breath. In. Out. In. Out.

Dr. Webb came to stand beside her. Said nothing. Just stood there, a steady presence.

"He remembered," she said finally.

"Yes."

"After ten years. He remembered the hummingbird was my favorite."

Webb's hand rested briefly on her shoulder. A gentle weight. “Wren—love clings to the smallest details, even when forgetting would be mercy.”

She looked down at the bird. At the bent wing. At the note that read: For those with eyes to see—the truth begins here.

And she realized—

This collection wasn't just about her great-great-grandfather.

It was about her.

About Jonah.

About secrets that needed to come to light.

She picked up the next specimen—a small thrush with a broken mount—and began to work.