Chapter 1
THE ROAD TO HALLOW’S END was winding and narrow, each twist and turn flanked by towering trees dressed in vibrant autumn colours. Golden leaves fluttered down like confetti, carpeting the road in a mosaic of amber, crimson, and russet hues. As I drove closer to the town, apprehension and hope churned within me.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel, the leather cool and familiar under my fingertips. The small, old hatchback car—my pride and joy—rattled and hummed with each bump in the road. I had named her Betty, and she was a comforting companion through thick and thin. She wasn’t much to look at, with her faded paint and occasional sputter, but she symbolized something far more valuable than luxury—my independence.
I bought Betty a year ago, at twenty-three, using money I had painstakingly saved from selling my art online and working as a waitress duringcollege—pursuits I had to keep secret from my parents, who would have dismissed them as distractions beneath our status. They had offered me a state-of-the-art luxury car, but I wanted nothing to do with their money. Every dollar I saved was mine, and was a small but significant step toward the independence I craved. Betty, with her quirks and occasional rattles, became more than just a vehicle. She was a reliable companion through late-night drives, long diner shifts, and countless moments of reflection—a tangible symbol of the life I was building on my own terms.
A sudden ring jolted me back to the present. I glanced at the phone mounted on the dashboard, where Sebastian’s name popped on the screen. I groaned. It had been three months since we broke up, yet his calls and texts hadn’t stopped. They had slowed down, sure, but there was always the occasional message to remind me of the lingering threads of our past. With a sigh, I focused back on the road, ignoring his call. I wasn’t ready to dive into that emotional quagmire, especially not while driving.
As I checked the GPS map for directions, I took a right turn onto a winding road, and the scenery shifted, revealing the stunning beauty of Massachusetts in autumn. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves and the faint aroma of woodsmoke from distant chimneys.
The engine sputtered slightly as I glanced at the GPS one more time before the signal cut out completely. Only the rhythmic crunch of tires over fallen leaves, and the occasional creak of the suspension, filled the silence that followed. I sighed and muttered to myself.
“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, Vinnie.”
The picturesque town of Hallow’s End appeared before me as my car emerged from the dense forest, bathed in the gentle glow of the late afternoon. Cobblestone streets wound through clusters of quaint houses andshops, each one decorated with pumpkins and cornstalks, embracing the season’s festive spirit.
As I drove through the town, I marvelled at how charming everything looked. The residential area was picture-perfect, with white picket fences surrounding well-kept lawns, vibrant flower beds, and cozy porches adorned with seasonal wreaths. It felt like I was stepping into a classic movie set. The kind of small town where everyone knew each other’s names, and life moved at a slower, more deliberate pace. I couldn’t believe I had lived so close to something this beautiful for so long—if you could call a two-and-a-half-hour drive close.
Eventually, I turned onto a narrow, dead-end street called Evergreen Way, which led to my new home—a rustic, ivy-covered cottage that seemed plucked from another era. Nestled at the lane’s end, it was framed by towering pine trees, with rolling hills stretching out to the horizon beyond. The sight was both comforting and intimidating.
This was supposed to be my fresh start. My escape from the chaos of Cresden—and the memories of Sebastian Sterling. As I sat in my car outside the cottage, I couldn’t shake the notion that I was an outsider in this tranquil, tight-knit community. Driving through the town, I had noticed a few townspeople glancing my way with mild curiosity, like they could instantly tell I was new here, their lives so intricately intertwined that a stranger’s presence was an unusual occurrence.
I’d half-expected people to step out of their homes, waving and offering a warm welcome, as if in some heartwarming story where newcomers are embraced with open arms. But that moment never came. Instead, the people of Hallow’s End continued their routines, subtly acknowledging my presence, but keeping a respectful distance. The picturesque streets and peaceful atmosphere were exactly what I had hoped for, yet now, sitting in my car, the silence felt more isolating than comforting.It was a stark contrast to the anonymity of Cresden, where blending in was easy. Here, in this perfect small town, people noticed every unfamiliar face, and every unfamiliar car stood out.
With a deep breath, I stepped out of the car and stretched my stiff limbs. The crisp autumn air filled my lungs, carrying with it the scents of pine, rain, and burning wood—a welcome change from the exhaust fumes and constant hum of the urban environment I was used to.
I approached the front porch, finding the key right where the owner had promised—in a small, rusted tin hidden under the welcome mat. I couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of it all. Only in a small neighborhood like this, would people consider it normal and safe to leave a key out in the open. In Cresden, the very idea would be laughable. Cresden was a city where everyone double-locked their doors, installed security systems, and looked suspiciously at strangers. There, the pace of life was fast, and trust was a rare commodity, guarded as closely as one’s belongings.
This charming town was another world—one where the air was cleaner, the pace slower, and the sense of community stronger. The idea that someone could feel safe enough to leave a key under a mat spoke volumes about the trust and simplicity that permeated this place. It was a charming anachronism, a relic of a more innocent time that still lingered here, far removed from the cynicism and hustle of city life.
I unlocked the door, and the hinges creaked as I let it swing open, before heading straight back to the car and popping the trunk to unload the few boxes I had brought along. It wasn’t much—just enough for a short stay. This trip had been a spontaneous decision, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d remain here. I’d rented the cottage for just a couple of weeks, hoping to figure out my next steps during this brief escape.
I’d packed only the essentials: a few changes of clothes, my art supplies, and some personal mementos I couldn’t bear to leave behind. It was abare-bones setup, perfectly reflecting my uncertainty, and the transient nature of this decision. The minimal luggage contrasted sharply with the weight of the life I had left behind in Cresden, where I’d felt so entrenched and suffocated.
Carefully balancing the boxes, I made my way back to the front porch. Lanterns lined the stone pathway, their flickering lights promising warmth and welcome. As I reached the door, a gust of wind kicked up, sending a stack of art supplies tumbling from my arms and across the yard. Brushes, canvases, and sketchbooks scattered like fallen leaves.
“Great,” I muttered, chasing after the runaway items, frustration bubbling up as I struggled to gather everything. My mind drifted back to the neatly organized studio I had left behind in Cresden. The spacious loft had been a haven of creativity and order, with its large windows letting in natural light, pristine white walls covered with my favorite pieces, and shelves meticulously organized with every brush, canvas, and tube of paint in its proper place. I remembered the comfort of my ergonomic chair, the smell of fresh coffee from the Starbucks downstairs wafting through the open window, and the soft hum of urban life that provided a constant, familiar backdrop to my work.
In Cresden, I had a sense of control, even amidst the chaos of my personal life. Here, in this unfamiliar and unpredictable place, everything was already seeming to slip through my fingers—both literallyandfiguratively.
A worn photograph slipped free from one of the sketchbooks and fluttered to the ground. I paused, staring at the picture of Sebastian and me from a few months into our relationship. We were on a crowded street in Cresden, the city lights twinkling like stars behind us.
I had taken the selfie, capturing us in a moment of pure joy. Sebastian’s arm was wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me close. He held an ice cream cone in his other hand, and we both were laughing, our smiles wideand genuine. I had just turned twenty, and my gray eyes were still full of hope, a soft smile playing on my lips. Sebastian, three years older, looked down at me with a playful glint in his emerald eyes. A smudge of ice cream marked his chiselled jawline, his blonde hair messy from the windy day.
Looking at the photograph now, a pang of nostalgia struck me. We were so happy then, so full of life and dreams. But those carefree days felt like a lifetime ago, overshadowed by the reality of our breakup, and the weight of everything that had followed.
With a sigh, I tucked the photograph back into the sketchbook and stooped to gather the scattered art supplies. As I picked up the sketch pencils and pads, I thought back to how much had changed since that photo was taken. Sebastian had finished college a year into our relationship, and his carefree, fun-loving side gradually gave way to the pressures of long meetings and responsibilities. He started working for his father, putting his business degree to use.
I understood the need for him to take things more seriously, but I felt the distance grow between us. While I was still in college, enjoying the freedom and creativity it afforded, Sebastian became absorbed in his new job. He tried to make time for me, and our families being so closely connected helped. We still had weekends at home, and family dinners, but it wasn’t the same. It had felt like he was slowly leaving behind the part of himself that I had fallen in love with—the spontaneous, joyful side.
As I carried the boxes to the door and set them down with a soft thud, I thought back to the occasional glimmers of his old self that would still emerge. Every now and then, that carefree, fun-loving Sebastian would resurface, surprising me with an impromptu date night, or a spontaneous road trip. Those fleeting moments reminded me of the man I had fallen for, and they kept me holding on.
Despite the changes, those brief glimpses of our past happiness made me believe we could rekindle what we once had. For years, I had clung to that hope, convincing myself that the man I loved was still there, just buried under the pressures of his new responsibilities. It was those moments, rare and precious, that made me stay, hoping they would become more frequent, and that we could find our way back to each other.
“Need a hand?” a bright voice interrupted my thoughts.
I looked up to see a woman with dark-blue hair and a whimsical smile standing at the gate. She looked to be about my age, perhaps a year or two older at most.
