Whispers of Tomorrow: Chapter Two: The Village by the Lake

 

The bus rattled into Rosewood beneath a dusky sky. Nestled between pine-covered hills and a shimmering lake, the village looked like something pulled from the pages of an old storybook. Cobblestone streets curved around tidy cottages with smoke curling from their chimneys, and lanterns glowed in shop windows, casting soft light against the evening chill.

Elena rented a small attic room above a bakery, where the scent of warm bread and cinnamon rolls seeped into her mornings. The baker, Mrs. Larkin, was a round woman with flour-dusted cheeks and a voice like honey. She didn’t pry when Elena gave only her first name. She simply handed her a key and said, “You look like someone who needs a bit of sweetness. Have a tart, dear.”

The days moved slowly in Rosewood. Elena spent them walking the cobblestone streets, trailing her fingers along weathered fences, and sitting at the lake’s edge with her notebook. Words spilled from her pen—fragments of thoughts, memories, and pieces of herself she hadn’t known were missing.

It was by the lake that she met him.

Her notebook slipped from her hands one breezy afternoon, tumbling into the water. She gasped and scrambled toward the edge, but before she could reach it, a man waded in, water splashing against his boots. He plucked the notebook out, shaking droplets from its pages.

“You can’t let words drown like that,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

Elena blinked up at him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of chestnuts and eyes as steady as the earth itself. His hands were rough, calloused, the hands of a man who built things.

“Thank you,” she managed, tucking the soggy notebook against her chest.

“Daniel Whitmore,” he introduced himself. “Carpenter. And occasional rescuer of runaway journals.”

She laughed softly, the sound foreign but welcome in her own ears.

From then on, their paths crossed often. At the bakery, where he fixed Mrs. Larkin’s wobbly chair. At the flower shop, where he carried crates of fresh blooms for his sister. And always by the lake, where Elena found herself returning again and again, as though some invisible thread pulled her there.

To be ..