The next morning, the sea mist lingered longer than usual. The fogs hung thicker and heavier. It clung to the flower hedges and power grids, softening edges, making everything look a little undone, winds whistled solemnly — as if the town hadn't quite woken up yet, as if they would never awake.
Elizabeth woke up from her fatiqued slumber. Solemn as always. Did her morning routine, a ritual that has kept her sane all these gruelling years.
She tied her hair into a clean ponytail, smeared a moisturiser over her silky face, pulled on a soft woollen pink cardigan, too worn to be trendy or stylish even. She pulled up an old blue jean that had seen the best of years. Slided into a brown boot and walked to town with her tote bag slung over her shoulder.
The florist shop was ajar, but there were no signs of activity or movement. Almost lifeless bereft of the sweet smell of lavender, rose, lilac.
The bakery was still there, smelling like cinnamon and flour and something impossibly warm mixed with the rich fragrance of cocoa. She bypassed it. many eyes. Too much familiarity. She was unprepared for searching eyes seeking answers.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe next year.
She ducked into the used bookstore instead. The same old library she used as a high schooler. Nostalgia awashed her.
It was the same as she remembered; smell of old books, musky, misty, and somewhat sweet. Sweet smell of ink and something new. Something she couldn't quite put a finger to.
The library looked rusty, maybe dustier, but books still cluttered in the most affectionate way on the shelves and reading tables.
Books piled in teetering towers. Notes scrawled on post-its:" Staff Pick . Broke me in the best way. Text me. Just read this. Lesson classes start soon. Tutors needed. Call me. Return books to the shelves after use. Maintain silence in the library. "The usual.
She moved quietly, fingers trailing along worn spines. Lost in her world. Creating happy fantasies. Heart contented. Eyes brimming with feelings, only books evoke. Joy. Happiness. Love. Warmth.
And then she heard it, a soft rustle near the children's section. Subtle, but enough to be picked by her.
A small girl sat curled on the floor behind a low shelf, her little clean jeans clinging like they were one with her thighs, knees to chest, hair a waterfall across her face like a crescendo
She clutched a picture book to her chest. Not reading, just holding it, like it was a lifeline of some sort.
Elizabeth paused. Not out of fear. Something gentler. Recognition, maybe. Instincts even.
The child looked up; wide-eyed, solemn. No words. Just watched.
Elizabeth didn't speak either. She crouched slowly, reached into her tote, and pulled out a notepad and pen. Scribbled something. Tore the page clean.
She slid it across the floor like a secret.
The girl hesitated, then picked it up. Her dewy eyes glanced up at Elizabeth as if unsure on why.
Then she read it.
> "Once upon a very quiet morning, a girl found a story that remembered her."
No name. No signature, just a soft offering.
A moment later, the child stood. Slipped the note into her coat pocket without a word. And walked away toward the front of the shop, where a man stood scanning the shelves with distracted tenderness. Oozing masculine energy books writes about.
Tall. Muscular. Tanned. An appearance that depicts a man who is strong, rough, and dangerous. But not the literal danger. Dangerous enough, you'd submit totally to him. Not the flower type of men idolised by our generation. Something deep, magnetic and protective spilt from his aura. A kinda man you'd leave your child with, or make one even.
He looked up as the child approached, hand instinctively reaching to touch the top of her head and ruffle her messy bun. She leaned into his side. He said something, quiet. She didn't reply. He stooped to kiss her forehead. A tender gaze shone upon his child.
He glanced in Elizabeth's direction. Their eyes met. Briefly. He gave a small nod. Nothing more. The little girl slid the note to his rough palms. He glanced through it. Looked over at Elizabeth. Something in his gaze shifted. He bowed slightly.
Then they were gone.
Elizabeth stood very still in the aisle. Heart ticking louder than it should. Hearts pounding against her ears. Something seemed to be brewing within.
Back at the cottage, Elizabeth placed her tote on the kitchen table and stood beside it for a long time, as if she'd forgotten what she came home to do.
The kettle whistled, sharp and sudden. She turned it off without making the tea. Pushed away the cinnamon roll she had picked from the bakery. Fresh, warm, fragrant enough to elicit hunger, but now forgotten with a forlorn thought.
She kept thinking about the girl; the way she held the book like it was something living, not printed. The way she hadn't spoken, but hadn't looked away either.
There had been something… familiar in that silence. Not empty. Just careful.
Elizabeth stepped into the living room and picked up her notepad again. She turned to a fresh page and sat at the small desk by the window, the one with the drawer that stuck if you didn't pull it just right.
She wrote without thinking:
> "There once was a girl who carried her voice in a box.
Not because it was broken.
But because the world had not yet earned the sound of her."
She stared at the lines, then underlined the last sentence once. Then again. And again.
For the first time in years, her hand didn't shake when she set the pen down. Her lacrimal gland seemed to be dry for the first time in a long while.
Outside the cottage, the tide pulled itself toward the moon. The sky was turning dusky lavender, with a hint of fading gold.
She didn't know who the man was. Or the girl. Or why it mattered.
Only that something had shifted. A hinge opening inward.
She tore the page from the notepad.
And this time, she didn't throw it away.
She kept it on her coffee table.
A subtle reminder of who she used to be. Someone she'd never forget.
Someone who's battle worn, but still standing tall.