Faith Lawrence was a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a black-and-white photograph. At 35 and just 5'2" tall, she was small and gentle, with a plain sort of prettiness that you only noticed if you looked twice. She had a way about her that made people want to confess things, and if anyone ever needed a shoulder to cry on, Faith would be there, small and sturdy, as if she’d never run out of compassion, no matter what life threw at her. She was a quiet soul, a soft-spoken thing with chestnut-brown hair that curled a bit too wildly around her chin, and big, brown eyes that carried a depth of kindness you didn’t see much of these days. There was something worn thin about her, true, but her shy, crooked smile—a small warmth she offered sparingly—was like a soft blanket on a cold day. Faith Lawrence had a heart of gold, sure, but it was a heart that had learned to wrap itself in caution, like a thin layer of armor that looked gentle but held firm. She still smiled at strangers, still offered a bit of warmth to anyone who approached with kindness. But it was a wary warmth now, the kind that came with well-practiced boundaries built from years of letdowns, from loving people who took that love and walked all over it.
People saw her as kind, but Faith knew her kindness wasn’t the open, reckless sort it used to be. It was careful now. If someone came up to her with that too-big smile and easy charm, she’d keep her polite distance, watching them the way you’d keep a hand near a door—ready to close it, just in case. She’d become the kind of person who didn’t trust easily, and yet… she was still painfully, maybe even endearingly, naive. She wanted to believe in the good in people, even when experience told her otherwise. She’d tell herself, this time I’ll be smarter, this time I’ll see through it, but then she’d catch herself offering up her trust like spare change. Because, deep down, despite everything, she couldn’t quite shake the belief that maybe people were good, or that they could change, or that someday her own luck might turn around. Under all that, the sweetness was a core made tough by necessity, shaped by years of learning what love was supposed to be and then recognizing, time and again, when it wasn’t that. Faith had learned that love didn’t mean being taken for granted or being the one who always tried harder. She’d learned the hard way that sometimes you had to walk away, even if walking away meant walking alone.
Her kindness was stubborn though—she couldn’t seem to shake it, even after the world had tried, time and again, to knock it out of her. Now, there wasn’t much left for the world to knock. She was arriving in Blackwood Hollow with little more than the clothes on her back and a past so tattered it barely held together. Two broken marriages, a handful of estranged relatives who’d long ago stopped listening to her troubles, and a few odds and ends of a life that felt as distant as a story she’d read years ago. She’d had dreams once, painted them bright in her mind, but those dreams had faded over time, worn down by reality and the kind of knocks you couldn’t avoid. What was left now was survival—a quiet persistence to keep going, to find somewhere that felt like a new beginning.
The bus wheezed to a stop in the center of town with a hiss of brakes and a swirl of dust, and Faith stepped down onto the cracked pavement, her only suitcase in hand, feeling a strange, queasy mix of dread and… was that hope? Orienting herself to her surroundings, Blackwood Hollow, she realized, had a stillness about it, the kind that clings to old places. The streets were neat and empty, the shop windows slightly fogged from age, as if even the buildings themselves had learned when to stay hushed. The air smelled clean, almost startlingly so—rich with pine, damp earth, and the faint, mossy scent of the nearby Okefenokee wetlands. It’s a place to start over, she told herself, and for the first time in years, a flicker of cautious optimism stirred in her heart, uncertain but persistent.
She tightened her grip on her suitcase handle, the worn leather cracked beneath her fingers, the latch barely holding on. Everything she owned was crammed inside—some frayed clothes, a few well-thumbed books, and her tattered sketchbook, the one thing that had seen her through the loneliest nights. A couple of stubby colored pencils rattled around in the bottom, the soft clinking sound comforting in its familiarity. She let that small noise steady her as she took in more of the scene, eyes tracing the gentle slope of the street, the modest, weathered storefronts, all of it achingly ordinary.
“Fresh start,” she whispered, almost a prayer, her voice small in the stillness, as if speaking the words might weave them into reality. “New life.”
She thought briefly of the home she’d left behind—once hers, with a rooftop garden that had long ago surrendered to wildflowers and weeds, a place that felt as worn and abandoned as she did, but it still held echoes of her life in its walls. It had been the last place that felt like hers, even if keeping it tidy had become a losing battle she couldn’t quite bear to abandon. And now she had nothing—again. She swallowed the yearning for home, pushing it down, and began to walk, passing a faded thrift store, its windows crowded with a strange assortment of gadgets and old antiques, the kinds of things that looked like they’d lived a whole life before ending up here. The shop was dark now, the lights inside dimmed and the door locked, but Faith could still see a mishmash of treasures: a brass teapot, a tarnished clock, an ancient sewing machine, and an assortment of old, mismatched toys, each one like a small relic from someone else’s past.
I belong in there. She thought pessimistically to herself.
As she moved further along, the town seemed to lean into that same quiet after-hours hush. Most of the businesses were closed up, doors locked and blinds drawn, as though they, too, had called it a day. A small barber shop caught her eye, its blinds hanging unevenly, like tired eyes half-closed, the once-white “closed” sign in the window faded to a dull yellow. A wooden bench out front stood sentinel, and a pair of empty chairs were inside, sitting in patient silence.
Faith remembered her directions and walked on, taking in the stillness. Blackwood Hollow felt like a town that knew how to settle in, to embrace the quiet without a fight. It was after five, and here, that meant it was time for dinner, time for families to gather at tables and friends to linger over home-cooked meals. A faint smell of food drifted in the air, just a hint, like someone’s roast chicken or stew simmering on the stove, seasoned with herbs and rich with the warmth of a kitchen well-used. The scent tugged at something deep inside her, a longing she pushed back down. A young boy on a bicycle shot past her, the rapid clicking of his chain ringing out in the still air. She gave him a small wave as he sped by, sidestepping to avoid a tiny anthill nestled in a crack in the sidewalk. With a steadying breath, she pressed on toward Foxbend Road, feeling the weight of each step but knowing there was no going back.
Foxbend Road was an odd stretch, a narrow lane lined with old magnolias whose wide, gnarled branches stretched over the road like ancient, watchful sentries. Fallen leaves blanketed the ground, their scent thick and earthy, mingling with damp moss and an edge of something murky, almost sour, that lingered just at the fringes of her awareness. The street had a weary, forgotten feel, as though time had passed it by, and perhaps, it preferred it that way. At the end of the line of mailboxes, she noticed one larger than the rest, its paint faded to a dull white, bearing the name “Marlow.” A faint sense of unease crawled up her spine, but she brushed it off as exhaustion.
At the far end of the road stood her new place—a dusty, pale-yellow mid-century house with a roof that seemed to stretch almost beyond the property line. The paint was chipped, the yard a recently trimmed patch of weeds and grass, and yet, as she stood in front of it, suitcase in hand, Faith felt something she hadn’t felt for what seemed like eons—a quiet, cautious sense of ownership. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t perfect, but for now, it was hers. She lifted her suitcase and began up the driveway, feeling the weight of both her past and whatever future she could make for herself, shifting with each step on the gravel.
To the left, beyond the hastily hacked bristle of the yard, a rickety fence held back a forest—the thick trunks of magnolias, hemlocks, and cypress trees draped with moss that swayed with a life of its own. Peeking out above the dense foliage, she could just make out the sharp silhouette of a black roof spire with a weathervane pointing at an odd angle. That must be the haunted house, she thought wryly, recalling what “Call me Charlie!” Draper, the jolly real estate agent, had said—or, more accurately, what he hadn’t meant to say. Charlie had hinted at the strange reputation of her neighbor, Ava Marlowe, the town recluse who seemed to live as a phantom in her own home. Charlie’s wife had shushed him, but Faith had heard enough. Faith found Charlie and Maggie friendly enough, but their relentless curiosity made her tired; they were the kind of people who’d flash a warm smile while fishing for every detail of your life. They meant well, she supposed, but their eager questions and constant, cheerful gossip felt like being pulled into a conversation she hadn’t agreed to join. She had let them know that a mysterious neighbor wasn’t something she feared.
Faith had known people like Ava before—reserved, private types who stayed on the edges of other people’s lives. She wasn’t going let idle talk or half-baked rumors change her impression of someone. She’d lived through real troubles: broken promises, broken furniture, and empty rooms that echoed back the fragments of her dreams. A strange neighbor in a run-down house barely registered as a concern. Yet as she reached her porch, something tickled at the back of her neck, a subtle disquiet, like a pair of unseen eyes watching her. She turned, her gaze skimming the tangled undergrowth until her eyes settled on Ava Marlowe’s house. She could just make out a window half-hidden by the foliage, its heavy, faded drapes drawn tight, and part of the yard, dark and still, as silent as a graveyard. She shook off the feeling, chalking it up to nerves. It was just another house, another neighbor. Nothing more.
She blew a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and crouched down, reaching under the dusty pot by the door. Her fingers closed around the cold metal of the key, right where Charlie had promised it would be. Inside the house, the floor creaked with each step, as if protesting this intrusion after years of silence; each complaint echoing in the bare, hollow rooms. The smell of dust hung thick in the air, mingling with the stale scent of old wallpaper glue and something faintly floral—maybe an ancient drawer sachet or dollar-store potpourri, long past its prime.
The front room, just a few paces across, was papered in a pale pink orange-blossom print that had started to curl and peel at the edges, giving the room a tired, sagging look. A single couch slumped against one wall, its fabric worn thin and patched in places, a relic of countless owners. Beside it sat a lone wooden chair, and in the corner, a battered bookshelf leaned slightly to one side as if exhausted from holding its former owner’s belongings. The front room flowed straight into a cramped kitchen, where an old, scarred table held the only sense of purpose, surrounded by mismatched dishes stacked unevenly on the counter.
Down the narrow hallway, a single bedroom held an iron-framed bed topped with a quilt so frayed it was barely held together. The pillow was newer, at least, its stark white casing a strange contrast against the quilt’s faded colors. A small IKEA side table sat beside the bed, oddly modern against the rest of the room’s outdated wear, and the single lamp atop it cast a dim, yellowed light, illuminating little more than the dusty cobwebs trailing down from the ceiling’s corners. The bathroom, completed the sparse layout, with tiles chipped and the faint, lingering scent of mildew.
As the evening deepened, Faith moved quietly around the house, adjusting small things, trying to settle in. She folded and refolded the worn quilt on her bed, smoothing out the frayed edges and making sure the pillow was fluffed and set just right. In the kitchen, she unpacked a single mug and set it carefully on the counter, imagining how she’d fill it with coffee the next morning, her first in this house. The tiny rituals—placing a book here, draping her scarf over the back of the old couch—brought a sense of peace that she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Before bed, she wandered to each of her few windows, peeking through the glass and taking in the quiet of Blackwood Hollow at night. The stillness of the town seemed to press in around her, wrapping the house in a blanket of silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the floor or whisper of wind through the walls. A calmness settled over her, a small reassurance that this was her space now, flawed and shabby as it was.
As she finally climbed into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin, she let out a deep, steadying breath. The bed was lumpy, the springs poking faintly into her back, but it was warm, and it was hers. She lay there in the dark, listening to the soft, unfamiliar sounds of her new home, feeling the faintest glimmer of contentment. For the first time in a long while, Faith felt safe. Exhausted from traveling, she drifted to sleep immediately.
Faith awoke, her first morning in Blackwood Hollow, to a stillness she hadn’t known in years. The early light slipped through the dusty window blinds, casting soft, slanted shadows across the room, illuminating the faded floral wallpaper with a quiet glow that felt almost warm. The mattress creaked as she stretched, her bones aching more than they should have for someone her age. She lay there for a long moment, listening, letting herself sink into the unfamiliar silence. Outside, a few birds chirped—a slow, tentative kind of song that drifted through the window panes and cracks. In the distance, a car engine hummed down a road she hadn’t traveled yet, the sound faint, almost comforting in its mundanity. The air was cool, and a light breeze brought the scent of pine and damp earth into the room. It was the kind of morning that made you think of fresh starts, of clean slates, of new beginnings.
The house itself seemed different in the morning light. Where last night it had felt eerie, the walls thin and the shadows clinging to the corners, this morning it was almost cozy if a little worn around the edges. The faded curtains, the peeling wallpaper, the dusty shelf that held her few books—these were details she could live with, imperfections that somehow made the place feel real. But it was lonely, and that loneliness pressed in on her, filling the empty spaces with memories she wasn’t ready to face. Starting over. The words sounded good in theory, but now, lying here in a strange bed in a strange town, it didn’t feel quite real. There was a heaviness in her chest, a knot of worry that had been growing ever since she’d stepped off the bus. She missed the familiarity of her old life, even if it had been filled with more heartache than happiness. There were pieces of herself scattered back there—moments, faces, pieces of furniture she’d never see again. And here she was, starting over from scratch, with no promises that this place would be any kinder. She let out a slow breath, closing her eyes for just a second, trying to steady herself. There was a tiny flicker of something—maybe hope, maybe just exhaustion—that whispered she could make this work. But that flicker was fragile, small, like a candle in a drafty room. She wasn’t free of her past, not yet. The memories clung to her like dust she couldn’t shake off, and she knew they’d follow her for a while yet.
Faith sat up, rubbing her eyes, feeling the weight of all she’d left behind. There was no magic here, no instant relief, just another chance to keep going, one day at a time. And maybe that was enough. She shuffled into the bathroom and washed her face next to an ancient claw-foot tub. Then she padded into the kitchen, her footsteps soft against the worn linoleum floor, the cool morning air settling around her shoulders. The kitchen had an odd charm to it, she thought, though "charm" might have been a kind exaggeration. The stove was an old, hulking thing from another era; its dials were smudged from years of hands turning them on and off, and the enamel chipped around the edges. The oven door stuck a little when she opened it, and a faint scent of burnt grease wafted out, but it seemed to work well enough.
She’d been a good cook once—a great cook, really. She’d loved the smell of fresh herbs and garlic sizzling in olive oil, the satisfaction of a soup simmered to perfection, the quiet joy of a well-cooked roast. Now, though, she didn’t have much to work with. Her supplies were pitifully basic: a loaf of bread that had started to dry at the corners, a couple of eggs, a knob of butter she’d picked up on her way into town, and a small tin of coffee. Still, she knew how to make the best of even the simplest ingredients.
She turned the stove dial, listening to the faint click-click-click before the gas finally caught with a soft whoosh. The pan she found in the cupboard was heavy, cast iron, its surface darkened and rough from years of use. She let the butter melt, swirling it around until it coated the bottom with a shimmering, golden sheen. As she cracked the eggs into the pan, they sizzled to life, the smell of butter and eggs filling the air, simple but comforting. She didn’t have salt or pepper yet, nothing to add a bit of flavor, but it would do.
The coffee, on the other hand, was another matter. She’d found an ancient percolator tucked in the back of a cabinet, the metal dented and its glass knob clouded with age. Faith figured out how it worked after a few fumbles, and soon the familiar scent of brewing coffee filled the room, rich and slightly bitter. It wasn’t her usual, and it wasn’t exactly gourmet, but the scent alone was enough to lift her spirits a bit.
Sitting down at the small kitchen table, her breakfast in front of her, Faith felt a pang of sadness. She missed having a real kitchen stocked with spices, pans that didn’t stick, and coffee that didn’t taste like tin. But this—this was hers now. She’d have to learn to love it, to make it her own, little by little. For now, she took a bite of her toast, the butter melting on her tongue, and allowed herself a small, hopeful thought that maybe, in time, this place would feel like home.
She was out of food now, with only a few crumpled dollar bills lying at the bottom of her purse, barely enough to last the next few days. She counted them twice, trying to stretch the feeling of security they offered, thin as it was. There was a certain stubbornness in those few dollars, a reminder that she'd scraped by on less before, and somehow, she'd manage again. She’d have to make it work. But first, she needed to finalize her lease with Charlie Draper, the real estate agent, who had been all too eager to hand her the keys and sign her up for "the quaintest little house in the Hollow."
She rinsed her plate and fork in the kitchen sink, her mind half-drifting through a list of the essentials she might buy with what little she had left. She dried her mug carefully, the one she’d bought years ago for reasons she could barely remember now, and placed it neatly back on the counter, like a promise that she’d be back to fill it tomorrow, even if she couldn’t quite imagine with what. As she moved through her tiny kitchen, preparing for the day ahead, the quiet began to settle over her like an invisible weight. Outside, the early morning light filtered through the dusty window, casting a soft, faded glow across the peeling wallpaper. It felt oddly peaceful, in a way she hadn’t expected, this ritual of starting over from nearly nothing. But the calm had an edge to it, a sharp awareness that this house was a temporary sanctuary, one she’d have to fight to keep if things didn’t work out. She took a last look around, inhaling the faint, stale scent of old plaster and something floral, a perfume leftover from a previous tenant, perhaps, now barely lingering in the walls. Her eyes landed on her crumpled purse, and she steeled herself for the day. The house might be a little worse for wear, but it was hers for now—and she intended to keep it that way.
Stepping outside, she was greeted by the early morning quiet of Blackwood Hollow. There was something unnervingly slow about this place, a calm so massive it felt like it had weight. She pulled her thin sweater tight against the moist air as she walked down Foxbend Road toward the town square. The street was bordered by sprawling magnolias and ancient oaks, their branches heavy with drapes of Spanish moss that swayed gently in the morning breeze, their branches casting long, sleepy shadows across the pavement. In Miami, mornings meant the hum of traffic, the buzz of neon signs, the smell of exhaust and sea salt all tangled together. Here, the only sound was the soft crunch of gravel under her feet and the occasional chirp of a bird.
Blackwood Hollow seemed suspended in time as if it had decided fifty years ago that it was content right where it was and didn’t see any need to change. As she neared the town square, Faith slowed down, taking in the details. The buildings were small, close together, with brick facades that had faded into soft, muted colors. Flower boxes spilled over with geraniums and petunias, their bright blooms were splashes of color against the otherwise muted palette. Miami’s brightness had been harsh, bold, and loud, a constant riot of movement and sound. Here, though, even the colors seemed softer, as if this place didn’t feel the need to shout to be noticed.
A group of children ran down the sidewalk in a little pack, laughing and chasing each other, with no parents in sight. A dog trotted after them, tail wagging, and Faith caught herself smiling a faint, wistful smile. In the city, children didn’t run free like this. They were packed into playgrounds, fenced in, or held tightly by anxious mothers with eyes darting to the traffic and crowds. Here, the streets felt safe, like nothing bad could slip in.
She wandered for a few minutes, passing the bakery with its chalkboard sign out front advertising cinnamon rolls fresh out of the oven. The smell drifted toward her, warm and sweet, reminding her just how empty her pantry was. Across from the bakery, a hardware store stood with dusty windows displaying tools that looked like they’d been there since the seventies, their handles worn and cracked. Faith paused, pressing her hand against the glass, watching as the morning light reflected off an old brass doorknob in the display. It was charming in its own way, like something you’d see in an old movie, quaint but unfamiliar. As she continued her ambling, she didn’t see her handprint on the shop window bubble around the edges and melt. It ran down the glass to the concrete walk and disappeared, leaving the storefront sparkling and pristine.
Eventually, she found her way to Charlie Draper’s office, a narrow storefront wedged between a women’s hair salon and a small florist’s; its sign hand-painted in faded blue letters: Draper Real Estate. Inside, it was just as she’d expected—a cramped, cluttered little office, the kind that hadn’t been updated in decades. Maps and listings were taped to the walls, curling at the edges, and the single desk was piled high with folders, the wood worn smooth from years of elbows and coffee mugs.
Charlie was exactly as he’d sounded on the phone—big, broad, with a face that seemed stuck in a permanent grin. His polo shirt stretched over his stomach, his kakhi’s were pressed with a razor-sharp crease, and the strength of his aftershave threatened to knock her over. His handshake was the kind that squeezed just a little too hard, as if he wanted you to know he was a man who meant business.
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"Morning, Miss Lawrence!" he said, his voice loud in the small space, echoing off the walls. “Welcome to Blackwood Hollow! Hope you’re finding everything to your liking.”
Faith smiled politely, though she couldn’t ignore the pang of worry in her stomach. She’d have to ask him for the name of a grocery store before she left—she’d need something cheap, enough to stretch until she could find the bank and access her meager savings.
“Oh, I’m getting settled,” she replied, her voice soft, though her hands tightened a little around the strap of her bag. “It’s… different here. But I think I like it.”
“Different from the big city, huh?” He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Not much like Miami, that’s for sure. Here, folks get to know each other and take things slow. You’ll see. Give it a little time, and you’ll feel right at home.”
Faith nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure. Miami had been harsh, yes, but it was a harshness she understood, a chaos that matched her own. Here, in the quiet of Blackwood Hollow, she felt exposed as if her secrets might slip out into the calm, still morning and run amuck through the streets like the gingerbread man, "You thought you could keep me locked up? Ha! I’ve got places to be and people to shock!”
Charlie slid a thin folder across the desk, his smile never faltering. “Just a few things to sign, and we’ll get you all squared away.”
Faith nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if testing the weight of the decision. Her chin dipped slightly, then rose again with a faint hesitation. Her eyes flickered with doubt but were tinged with resolve. “I don’t know if this is right, but I know I have to do it,” she thought, taking the pen, her fingers steady despite the swirl of doubts in her head. Starting over wasn’t going to be easy. But as she signed her name on the dotted line, she couldn’t shake that faint glimmer of hope—a flicker, small and cautious, but there.
“You’ll love it here!” Charlie bellowed again, handing over the carbon paper lease with a wide grin. “Not much to do, mind you, but that’s the charm of Blackwood Hollow, I think. Peaceful. Quiet.” Charlie paused, looking at her closely. “You’ve got a … er, special…neighbor,” he winked conspiratorially. Faith nodded, though she was already getting tired of his cologne and wanted to flee from his overpowering presence in the tiny space. She wasn’t one to be scared by rumors, and Charlie’s words had a strange weight to them, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She thanked him, folded her copy of the lease into her purse, and turned to head out the door. But Charlie Draper leaned forward, one hand raised in the universal gesture of “hold on a minute.”
“Now, Miss Lawrence,” he said, his voice turning solemn, though his grin remained fixed and overly friendly. “Before you go, let me give you a bit of advice.” He winked, leaning back in his chair as if he were settling in for a long story, despite her hand already on the doorknob. “You see, around here, it’s the little things that make or break a home. I always say—well, Maggie always says too—that keeping a place up to snuff is half the battle when it comes to property value. Some folks think just because they’ve signed on the dotted line, they can sit back and relax, but nope! Not if you want your deposit back.”
Faith tried to nod along, her hand tightening on her bag, the door seeming farther away with each slow, deliberate syllable. Her thoughts bleated, “Great. The house is the architectural equivalent of a Jenga tower with one block left. No pressure.” She managed a faint, polite smile, murmuring, “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” hoping that would be enough to satisfy him.
But Charlie was on a roll now, his eyes glinting with that particular joy of a man who loved the sound of his own voice. “Now, take gutters, for instance,” he went on, pushing himself up from behind the desk. “Everyone overlooks the gutters, but if they get clogged, that’s where the trouble starts. One heavy rain, and it’s water, water, everywhere. Next thing you know, you got rot, you got mildew, you got…” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “Well, let’s just say a stitch in time saves nine. You know what I mean?”
“Ah, yes. Nothing makes a delicate situation better than unsolicited advice from someone who’s probably responsible for breaking half the things they’re lecturing about,” she thought as she kept nodding, hoping the act of doing so would somehow propel her toward the door. But Charlie, oblivious to her inching movements, sidled around the desk, coming in close, his big, friendly hand reaching out as if he was about to steer her by the shoulder. Faith’s stomach twisted, her skin crawling as her body fought to decide: flinch, flee, or endure.
“So!” he continued, his voice booming now, “The long and the short of it is, make sure you’re keeping an eye on those small things. A little TLC goes a long way, especially around here. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after twenty-two years in real estate, it’s that—”
Before he could finish, Faith sidestepped just in time, ducking his well-meaning arm and managing a quick, “Thank you so much for the advice! I’ll remember it!” She flashed him a tight, brittle smile, already turning toward the door.
“...the long and the short of it is—” he started again, extending a hand for another bone-crushing handshake.
Faith, however, was already halfway out the door, giving a quick wave and a final, “Goodbye!” She closed the door firmly behind her, cutting off his last words with a decisive click.
Standing outside in the quiet of the morning, she let out a long, relieved breath, the memory of his overly warm handshake lingering like a faint bruise. “How are you going to survive if you can’t even cope with that guy?” her inner voice taunted. Taking a deep, decisive breath, she crossed the square to the bakery from which the smell of freshly baked bread and cinnamon wafted, making her stomach gurgle. The air was warming with the sunshine and punctuated with the smell of baking—a scent so comforting that, for a moment, she forgot her snarky commentator.
The bakery was like something out of a dream, a cozy blend of rustic charm and modern quirks that Faith couldn’t help but marvel at as she stepped inside. The ceilings stretched high above her, with exposed wooden rafters and silver ventilation pipes that wound their way across the room like giant metal snakes. Strings of twinkle lights and a few modern spotlights hung from wires strung across the rafters, casting a warm, welcoming glow over everything. Potted herbs—basil, rosemary, thyme—hung from hooks in thick green bunches, their leaves dense and fragrant. Around the edges, clusters of drying spices—lavender, sage, bay leaves—dangled like little bouquets, giving the air a faint, earthy sweetness.
The walls were bare brick, but patches had been plastered over with burlap flour bags, some printed in faded English, others covered in foreign languages with elegant, looping scripts that hinted at far-off places. Tilting shelves lined the walls, each one polished to a gleam and crowded with an array of bread, their golden crusts catching the light. French baguettes, soft brioche rolls, crusty sourdough loaves, and rye bread dusted with flour—all sat on display, fresh and tempting. Faith could practically feel the warmth of the oven that must have been working tirelessly in the back.
The floor was poured concrete but inlaid with rainbow-colored flecks and patterns—fossil-like imprints of shells and ferns embedded deep in the stone as if it were a beach floor caught in time. Faith imagined it must catch the morning sun just right, casting tiny rainbows across the room. She could tell that, back in Miami, a place like this would be a goldmine, a trendy hotspot with lines out the door. Here, though, it was just part of Blackwood Hollow’s quiet charm, a hidden gem that didn’t need to advertise its worth.
Behind the counter, a plump woman with flour-dusted hands and a cheerful, round face waved her over. “Morning, hon!” she said with a broad smile, already reaching for a cinnamon roll from the tray behind her. “On the house,” she added, pressing the warm pastry into Faith’s hand with a wink. “You’ll find we’re a friendly bunch around here.”
Faith returned the smile, the warmth of the cinnamon roll spreading through her fingers. “Thank you… I’m Faith, just moved in on Foxbend.”
“Oh!” The woman’s smile faltered just a bit, her eyes flicking to a man standing in a suit by the raisin bread. She recovered quickly, her voice brightening again. “Right next to Ava Marlowe, I suppose?”
“Yes.” Faith took a small bite of the roll, savoring the sweetness. “It’s quiet there,” she said, trying to keep the conversation light, but Delia only nodded, her smile turning just a touch tighter.
“Well, welcome to Blackwood Hollow, Faith,” she said, her voice cheerful again. “If you need anything, you just let me know. I’m Delia.”
Delia was the bakery’s heart and soul. She stood behind the counter, her smile wide and warm enough to fill the room. Delia was slightly shorter than Faith, but she had a generous, curvy figure, the kind that seemed built for hugs and hearty laughter. She was twice Faith’s width but in a feminine way, her curves soft yet strong, and her warmth radiated from her like an embrace. Delia’s eyes were large and beautifully set wide apart, golden irises bright and inviting, like pools of honey catching the light. Her hand had been soft but strong, clearly shaped by years of kneading dough and rolling pastry. She wore a colorful peasant blouse that billowed out at the elbows, and over it, a well-loved apron in deep navy blue that was so dusted in flour you could hardly make out the words Ray’s Bakery scrawled across her chest. Her hair was short and curly, framing a face that was open and inviting, with a wide, upturned nose and a generous mouth, bracketed by deep dimples. She wore faded jeans cuffed at the ankle and a pair of worn clogs, giving her a casual, earthy look, as if she belonged to the bakery as much as the bricks and herbs did.
Faith marveled at Delia’s generosity, naturally friendly smile, and the ease of this woman with a complete stranger. Faith glanced down at the cinnamon roll in her hand, feeling the warmth and sweetness curling around her like a comforting blanket. She took another small, hesitant bite, savoring the buttery pastry and letting it ease some of the tightness in her chest. She swallowed, her voice coming out softer than she intended. “Um, Delia, do you know where I could find a grocery store around here?”
Delia’s eyes softened, the warmth in them deepening, and she leaned forward over the counter as if she were settling in to make sure Faith had every last detail she needed. “Of course, darlin’. We have a little place right over on the other side of Main, tucked in there like it’s hidin’ from the rest of the town,” she said, her voice lilting with affection. “Now, it’s not like those big chains you’re probably used to. Ain’t no neon signs or massive parking lots here, but you’ll find just about everything you need. Just good, honest food from folks around here.”
Delia’s flour-dusted fingers reached out as she gestured down the street, painting a path with her hand. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, honey. You’re gonna walk down Main, past the library—now, you’ll know it because it’s got that big oak tree out front, the one with the white swing hanging from the lowest branch. Can’t miss it.”
Faith nodded, hanging on every word, feeling like a child being shown the way home for the first time.
“After the library, you’re gonna cross over Willow Street,” Delia continued, her voice low and gentle like she was confiding a secret. “That’s where our one little stoplight is. Now, you don’t need to worry about traffic much, but you watch for that light. Sometimes folks get a little excited comin’ through, you know?” She chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her tone full of that tender care that made Faith’s heart ache in the best way.
“Once you’re across Willow, you’ll see a little brick building with a green awning—that’s your spot, Sugarleaf Grocery. It’s small, and maybe it looks a bit plain on the outside, but don’t let that fool you. Inside, it’s real nice. They keep the produce near the front by the windows, so you’ll see the fresh apples and herbs when you walk in. You’ll find the essentials there—milk, eggs, even a little deli in the back where Miss Edna sells her pickled beets and the best pimento cheese you’ll ever taste.”
She looked at Faith, making sure she’d kept up, and when Faith nodded, Delia grinned wider, her lips a warm, natural plum color. “You got it? It’s not hard, I promise, and if you get turned around, you just ask someone. We’ll set you straight. Everyone around here’ll be happy to help.”
Faith felt a swell of gratitude she hadn’t expected, a mixture of relief and something deeper, something that came from being looked after, even if just for a moment. “Thank you, Delia. I… I really appreciate it.” Faith nodded, unable to find the words for how much her kindness meant. She clutched her cinnamon roll a little tighter, blinking back an unexpected sting of tears as she thanked Delia again, feeling a strange lightness as she left the bakery, as if she’d been given not just directions, but a piece of home. Faith’s inner critic had been silenced in the presence of Delia’s kindness.
The rest of Faith’s day drifted by like a slow, hazy walk through an old memory. Blackwood Hollow had a timelessness about it, a feeling like she’d wandered into a place where the world had chosen to keep its own quiet rhythm. Each street held a small discovery, each turn offering a new glimpse into the everyday life of this small town tucked away from the rush of the world.
Across the street again, she found the hardware store. Unlike the pristine displays she was used to in the city, this place was a jumble of tools, paints, and supplies crammed onto narrow shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Behind the counter stood a woman with a no-nonsense look, her hair cut short and practical, a bandana tied around her neck. She wore work boots that looked well-worn and had hands that looked like they’d built half the town. The woman barely gave Faith a second glance as she rang up a couple of nails and screws for an elderly man by the register. But her voice while speaking to the man was warm, her laughter like the crack of kindling, and Faith couldn’t help but feel oddly reassured by her presence. Maybe it was her strength. She certainly looked tough. Faith continued her tour of Blackwood Hollow without bothering the woman or her customer.
The post office was next. It was a narrow, dimly lit building with a single, ancient fan turning lazily from the ceiling, as though even the air in this town took its time. The clerk, an older man with thick round glasses and wearing a greasy-looking baseball cap, barely looked up as Faith entered. He muttered a greeting and went back to organizing stacks of manilla envelopes, his movements slow and methodical, like he’d been doing the same routine for decades. Faith wasn’t in need of stamps, but she lingered for a moment, taking in the comforting smell of old paper and ink before slipping back outside.
The library sat on the corner, its brick exterior weathered but proud, with narrow windows that seemed to peer out at the town like old, wise eyes. A little swing with chipping white paint on the seat hung from the largest tree Faith had ever seen. The tree must have been older than the town itself. Venturing inside, Faith’s footsteps echoed against the wooden floors, the shelves lined with books that smelled faintly of dust and old leather, their spines faded, some titles barely legible. She ran her fingers along them, feeling the years each one had endured. The librarian was a wiry woman with half-moon glasses perched at the end of her nose, who gave Faith a brief, assessing glance before smiling at her and going back to her reading. The whole place felt like it was holding its breath, preserving stories both on the shelves and in the walls themselves. But it too, felt safe, as if the books were waiting patiently, spines cracked just enough to say, We’ve been through a lot too, but hey, we’re still here.
Exiting the library, with its quiet promise that no matter how loud the world outside tended to be, it didn’t belong in there, she made her way to the grocery store Delia had so carefully described. Sure enough, it was just where she’d said it would be, tucked behind the single stoplight at the end of Willow Street. Inside, the smell of fresh apples and herbs greeted her, the produce displayed proudly by the front windows, just as Delia had promised. She picked out a crisp red apple, a pint of cream for her coffee, and a simple loaf of reduced-price bread, and finally made her way to the back, where Edna was slicing up thick pieces of ham in the deli. Edna was a woman of average height, slender in that way age sometimes brings, her hands gnarled from years of slicing and weighing, yet still moving with practiced grace as she worked the counter. Her blue eyes, framed by webs of fine wrinkles, seemed warm and familiar as a grandmother’s. She wore neatly pressed tan slacks and a black long-sleeved shirt with the word “Sugarleaf” printed across the back in soft, white cursive, the fabric well-worn but spotless.
Faith asked for a few slices of ham, watching as Edna arranged the pieces with careful precision. Edna’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before she spoke, as though reading more in Faith’s request than she let on. When Faith inquired about any specials, Edna didn’t hesitate, her smile kind and knowing.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said, ringing up the ham with a soft click of the register keys. “I can do half-off on this one. Call it a special just for today.” Faith smiled gratefully as Edna packed up the ham, her eyes bright with quiet understanding. She handed Faith her package of ham with a nod and another brief smile before turning back to her work without another word. “I must be lucky today,” she told herself as she left the market.
From there, Faith wandered until she found the bank—a squat building with a single teller window, its counter polished and gleaming as if it had just been wiped down. The teller was a younger woman with a pleasant, practiced smile and bright blue eyes that seemed watchful and alert as if she saw and remembered everything that passed across her counter. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, not a strand out of place, and she wore a pale pink blouse with a delicate silver pendant that caught the light each time she moved. There was a faint dusting of freckles across her nose, giving her an unexpected touch of softness against her otherwise professional appearance. With practiced ease, she helped Faith transfer her modest savings into a new account while sharing polite small talk, her hand briefly and gently touching Faith’s forearm. There was mindfulness about the teller, and Faith was relieved when she confirmed that her rent check had cleared. It was a small thing, but knowing she had one less worry eased some of the tension Faith had carried in her shoulders all day. On her way out, she heard someone call out, “Josephine! My goodness! You do look lovely today,” as the next customer stepped up to the counter.
Faith strolled past the old Town Hall, its brick facade and white columns standing tall and quiet in the morning light. She paused, thinking briefly of stepping inside to take care of some paperwork, but something about its stately, somber air made her think better of it. There would be time for that later, she told herself, moving down the street, her gaze settling on the barber shop just ahead.
As she drew closer, she spotted an old man sitting on the bench out front, his back hunched but his smile warm and easy. He looked up as she approached, his eyes brightening with a familiar kind of friendliness. Faith stopped, feeling drawn in by his presence. He gave her a nod and an “ayuh,” patting her arm with a light, gnarled hand as if they were already old friends. She asked him a question or two, just to be polite, but his responses were mostly single syllables—an “mmnope” here, a chuckle there. When he did have more to say, it was garbled, as if his mouth were full of loose teeth. His laughter was deep and raspy, full of a warmth that made her smile in spite of herself.
Peering through the barber shop window, Faith noticed the man in the suit from the bakery, sitting back in one of the old leather chairs, a towel tucked around his neck, eyes closed as the barber leaned over him with a straight razor. She watched for a moment, surprised they still did that, the art of a shave seeming almost quaint and foreign in this modern world.
After bidding the old man goodbye with a nod, she continued on down the street. She wandered into the thrift store. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged paper and polished wood, a subtle mustiness that spoke of countless lives and stories tucked onto the shelves. She took her time, fingers grazing over old clocks, battered kitchenware, and shelves lined with everything from chipped ceramic animals to forgotten board games. The store felt like a small, dusty world unto itself, every object a piece of someone’s history waiting to be claimed again. She spied several items that she could have used, but she reminded herself that money was tight and left the store without greeting anyone.
By the time the sun hung high overhead, casting a heavy, hard yellow light over the town, Blackwood Hollow had fallen into a midday lull. The earlier breeze had faded entirely, leaving the air thick and heavy, like a damp blanket pressing down the air. Faith could feel the humidity creeping in, seeping into her skin, her hair, and the whole town feeling slow and stifled under its weight. The streets were empty now, everyone having retreated indoors to escape the muggy stillness that seemed to hover like a second layer over everything.
Faith had never experienced a swampy noon before, this kind of heat that felt alive, clinging and relentless. It was the sort of afternoon where even the shade didn’t offer much relief, where every step felt like wading through soup. She lingered for a moment on the quiet street, feeling the thickness settle around her, before deciding that home was the best option. With a final glance at the sun-baked buildings around her, she turned and headed back, eager to escape the sticky weight of the afternoon. Faith felt all the walking in her back and feet. Her body was tired, her mind weary from taking in so many new sights and sounds. Blackwood Hollow had shown her its quiet corners, its routines, and in doing so, it had taken a little piece of her heart. She made her way back to Foxbend Road, her grocery bag crinkling at her side, and as she walked, she realized just how much this town had worn her out. But there was something peaceful in that exhaustion. She was tired, yes, but it was a new kind of tired—the kind that came from exploring rather than fighting, from beginning rather than ending. As she stepped through the door of her little house and set her groceries down on the counter, she blew out a long breath, letting the stillness of the evening settle over her. She didn’t know yet if this place would be kind to her, if it would ever truly feel like home, but for now, it was enough.
Over the next few days, Faith settled into a routine. She’d wake early, make coffee, and sit on her small front porch, watching the street slowly come to life. She read in the afternoons, losing herself in the words of others, the stories offering a brief escape from the silence that seemed to press in on her new home. By nightfall, she was usually so worn down that she barely made it through her dinner of ham sandwich and a slice or two of apple before collapsing into bed, exhausted but strangely content.
Yet, despite the quiet comfort of her new life, she couldn’t shake the strange presence that seemed to linger next door. Ava Marlowe’s house loomed at the edge of her thoughts, not from fear, but from an odd energy that seemed to seep from it. Faith noticed how the rest of the neighbors waved and smiled, how they were quick with a kind word or a polite nod. But no one seemed to look at Ava’s house for long as if drawn to it but afraid to stare. It was quiet, almost eerily so. No lights ever flickered in the windows, and her garden, although it looked as if it had been once carefully tended, had grown wild and thick, tangled with weeds and reeking faintly of something swampy, something decayed.
One evening, as Faith sat on her porch, the sky darkening around her, she heard a sound—the soft, deliberate crunch of footsteps through the dead leaves on the other side of the fence. She turned, and there, just beyond the tangled hedges, she saw a figure emerging from the shadows. Ava Marlowe. Ava was, as Charlie had mentioned, beautiful—though not in the way Faith had expected. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, like fine porcelain in the dim light, and her hair, streaked with silver, cascaded down her back in soft waves. But it was her eyes that held Faith’s attention—green, bright, and intense, catching the fading light like the surface of a hidden pond, deep and unblinking. Ava moved with an elegance that seemed unnatural, her steps just a faint rustle, as if she were gliding over the earth instead of touching it.
Ava glanced towards the shrubs as if she’d heard something, and for a moment, their eyes met. Faith felt a strange sensation, a pull, as though Ava’s gaze was reaching inside her, invading her space and examining her private thoughts. But before she could react, Ava looked away, turning and disappearing into the dense shadows of a massively overgrown rhododendron. Faith let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. That had been strange. Maybe paranoia? Faith wondered about her mind sometimes - too much time alone, she suspected. She wasn’t afraid—not exactly. If anything, she felt an odd sense of kinship with Ava Marlowe, a recognition of something they shared. They were both outsiders here, both skirting the edges of a place that didn’t quite feel like home. And while the other residents of Blackwood Hollow gathered for Sunday socials and filled their days with idle chatter, Faith and Ava seemed to exist on the fringes, carrying secrets the town would never understand.
That night, as she lay in bed, her thoughts drifted back to Ava’s house, to the strange energy that seemed to radiate from it like heat from a dying fire. She couldn’t help but wonder what secrets Ava Marlowe kept locked behind her darkened windows, what mysteries lay hidden in the shadows of her silent, watchful home. Blackwood Hollow was probably full of secrets, she realized. But Faith wasn’t here to unravel mysteries. She’d spent too many years piecing together her own shattered life to care about someone else’s. Still, as she drifted before sleep, she conjured again the image of Ava Marlowe’s eyes, the feeling of that gaze boring into her, uninvited. And somewhere in the back of her mind, a faint unease flickered like a distant warning light in the fog. Unfortunately, sleep and exhaustion took her away before she could examine it further.