I opened Always Remember on a Tuesday night, sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor. The kettle had boiled ten minutes ago. I hadn’t poured the water. I was staring at the cover, that blue storm sky, the four small figures huddled together. I had loved the first book. I had bought copies for friends going through hard things. But I was scared, honestly. Scared this one would feel like a rerun. Scared the comfort would feel manufactured.
The question I couldn’t shake: can a book that tells you everything will be okay actually help when you’re not sure it will?
How the Characters Carry the Weight
The boy is back, still unsure, still asking questions. The mole still loves cake. The fox is quiet and watchful. The horse is still the one who says the kindest things. Mackesy doesn’t change their personalities, and that’s probably the point.
The storm comes early. Dark clouds gather. The four friends are lost. They wander. They get scared. They ask each other for help.
Here’s what I noticed this time. The mole, who was so cheerful before, gets quiet. The boy admits he doesn’t know which way to go. The fox, usually the observer, steps in to lead for a moment. Mackesy lets each character show their cracks. Nobody is the designated “strong one” anymore.
I won’t tell you what happens at the end, but I will say this. The storm doesn’t pass because they find a shelter or because someone saves them. It passes because they keep walking together. That felt true to me. More true than the first book’s gentle affirmations, actually.
But I had a nagging feeling. The stakes here are so soft. The storm is metaphorical. Nobody gets truly hurt. I wanted to believe in this world, but a part of me kept thinking: real storms don’t look like this. Real storms leave scars.
Where the Art Soars and Where It Plays Safe
Mackesy’s art is the real star here. The watercolors are looser than before, more wild. There’s a two-page spread of the storm that made me hold my breath. Black ink bleeding into blue, scratches of white where lightning might be. You can feel the wind.
The core theme, I think, is patience. The book keeps coming back to this idea: you can’t rush through the hard parts. “Be patient with yourself,” the mole says at one point. “Shouting at a flower won’t make it bloom.”
That line landed for me. But it also made me uncomfortable. Because sometimes shouting at a flower isn’t impatience. Sometimes it’s desperation. And I’m not sure Mackesy knows the difference.
The imagery of the storm is beautiful, but it’s also contained. The illustrations show rain and wind, but never mud on the characters’ faces, never wet clothes clinging to cold skin. The storm stays at a safe distance, even when it’s supposedly all around them. That felt like a missed chance.
The pattern is clear: we all face hard times. We all need someone to walk with us. That’s not wrong. But it’s also not the whole truth. Some people face storms alone. Some people don’t have a fox or a horse or a mole. And this book doesn’t really address that.
What This Book Actually Gives You
I finished the book in about forty minutes. The tea was cold. I sat there for a while.
Here’s what I decided. This book won’t save you. It won’t give you a solution to your actual problems. It won’t tell you how to pay your bills or fix your relationship or deal with your grief. That’s not what it’s trying to do.
What it does is give you permission to be small. To admit you’re lost. To ask for help. And that’s not nothing.
The uncomfortable truth, though, is that the book’s kindness sometimes feels too neat. The storm ends. The sun comes out. The friends hug. I wanted a page where the boy says “I’m still scared even though you said that.” But Mackesy doesn’t go there. He stays in the space of gentle reassurance.
I think this book is best for people who already believe in kindness. People who need a reminder, not an argument. If you’re deep in cynicism, this book will probably annoy you. If you’re grieving and need someone to hold your hand without saying much, this might help.
What I took away, finally, was this. The strongest comfort isn’t the one that solves everything. It’s the one that sits with you while you’re still in the mess. Mackesy’s characters do that. They don’t fix the storm. They just stay.
This book won’t change your life. But it might make you feel slightly less alone in a moment of quiet desperation. And maybe that’s enough.
