Ruby

I went into Ruby expecting a story about grief, and while that’s certainly present, what I didn’t anticipate was how Hood balances that sorrow with an undercurrent of hope so subtle it almost catches you off guard. Khristine Hvam’s narration is the secret weapon here—her Ruby is all brash, teenage defiance, while her Nora is a fragile, aching whisper of a woman. The contrast works brilliantly, especially in scenes where the two voices collide, like when Ruby confronts Nora about her late husband’s belongings. Hvam nails the subtext, making even mundane exchanges feel charged with unspoken emotion. That said, the middle third drags a bit. The relationship between Nora and Ruby clicks into place with satisfying inevitability, but the journey there feels padded with too many secondary characters who don’t add enough depth to justify their presence. The production is crisp, though—no muffled audio or distracting background noise, just clean, immersive sound that keeps you locked in. My biggest critique? The ending wraps up a little too neatly for my taste. Hood resolves Ruby’s personal arc with a bow that feels a tad too tidy, given the rawness of the rest of the story. Still, by that point, I was too invested in these women to care much. Ruby is a novel that sneaks up on you, leaving you emotionally spent but oddly uplifted by the time the credits roll. If you’ve ever lost someone or needed an unlikely friend to pull you back from the edge, this one’s for you.