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York Times Best-Seller list for 216 weeks. But for our family, it became something more personal — a shared literary experience that sparked conversations about place, character and the thin boundaries between good and evil in the city that launched Georgia’s history way back in 1733.

The Bird Girl statue on the cover became particularly significant to Margaret, and she surrounded herself with replicas, including a small blue resin version. She treasured it, displaying it prominently among her most valued possessions in their den.

Years passed. George retired against his will from his beloved VA work, falling into a deep, dark depression before his death in 2009. When we moved Margaret to an assisted living facility that same year, the tiny Bird Girl replica went with her — a talisman of happier times. As she neared the end of her life in 2012, I asked if I could have the replica when she was gone.

“Absolutely. You appreciated the book as much as we did. Of course I want you to have it,” she told me, her voice weak but her mind still sharp that day.

Today, that small blue Bird Girl watches over my office from a bookshelf, while a cement version stands guard in my front garden. They’re more than decorations — they’re memory keepers. When I look at them, I’m transported back to that Victorian couch, to Margaret with her cigarette and Laura Ashley dress, to George drinking a glass of seltzer water while flipping through a museum catalogue and listening to opera.

I miss them — Margaret with her encyclopedic knowledge that could have won thousands of dollars had she appeared on Jeopardy, her love of silver and fine china, her passion for British royalty and Braves baseball; George with his fondness for cooking and his dedication to healing traumatized veterans, his transition from priest to psychologist to a sort of father figure for my husband and his sister.

The Bird Girl stands as silent witness to what remains when loved ones depart — stories shared, books passed from hand to hand, conversations that echo years later. In the garden of memory, midnight never comes, and those we’ve lost remain forever present, forever reading on that Victorian couch, forever recommending one more extraordinary book I simply must read.