There’s no other way to say it. I lost Gino earlier this year, and just when I thought I might be steadying myself, I lost Piglet and then Hilda barely a month apart. Each of them left holes in my heart and in my home. If you’ve ever loved a dog (or three), you know how impossible it feels to fill that silence.

(Hilda, before megaesophagus took her from me)

And as if grief wasn’t enough, there’s been rescue drama too. For those of you who are newer here — I run a dog and cat rescue. It’s the joy of my life, but it can also break you in ways you don’t see coming. This year it made me question whether I could even keep going. For a while, I honestly didn’t know the answer.

So if you’ve been wondering where I went — I’m sorry. I disappeared into survival mode.

But here I am, trying again.

Writing has always been the place where I can breathe. It’s where grief softens, where chaos makes sense, where I can spin a little magic out of heartbreak. So I’m easing my way back onto Substack. My plan is simple: I’ll share updates, and I’ll share stories. Some will be ghostly, some will be witchy, some will just be little escapes from the heaviness of the everyday.

And about this next piece — I don’t expect it will ever turn into anything “finished.” It will probably remain what it’s always been for me: a background world-building exercise, a teaser, a bit of exploration. A corner of a world I can wander in when I need to remind myself that imagination is still alive and well.

I missed this. I missed you.

So let’s start again, right here, with a visit to Blackthorne Mews — a street where a tea room, a pub, and a bookshop all sit cheek by jowl, and where the past is never quite finished with us.

Thank you for sticking with me. Thank you for reading.

It feels good to be back.

—Becky