“The green trail takes you up to the hills,” the cashier offered when she saw Sadie looking over the map. “There are good views of the Misbourne Valley.”
Sadie studied the simple map, noting the path leading from Church Street to the Chiltern Hills. Open space. Fresh air. It sounded glorious after days cooped up with Corbyn’s tightly plotted murder mysteries.
She passed by the crowded courtyard café, stepping back onto the street. The village continued its quiet Thursday morning routine around her, unaware that something had shifted inside Sadie while visiting the museum. There was a flicker of an idea for a story, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Perhaps it wouldn’t amount to anything, but the fact that she felt it at all gave her hope.
Reaching the top of the trail, Sadie took a moment to catch her breath. Her calves burned, unused to the drastic change in elevation, and she leaned against an old oak tree for support.
“Not as fit as I thought,” she murmured, her words forming clouds that dissipated into the cool air.
When she regained her ability to breathe, she climbed the last few feet to a lookout point she had spotted up ahead. The beautyof the English countryside sprawled out before her, and for a moment, she was lost to the majesty of it. The Chilterns and the Misbourne River below looked almost unreal, and part of her wished she could stay in this very moment forever.
She spotted a bench sitting nearby, its wood gray from years of exposure to the open air. The bench creaked beneath her weight, but it seemed solid as she settled in. Placing her bag beside her, she pulled out her notebook, opening to the next blank page.
Even though she had been writing all week, she hesitated. Most of what she had written had been more stream of consciousness than actual storytelling. The idea of filling the page before her with a creative piece had her frozen in terror.
What if the words wouldn’t come? What if they did, but were terrible?
“Stop it,” she whispered, the breeze carrying the command. “Just write something. Anything.”
She uncapped her pen, and she took a deep breath, letting the fresh air calm her nerves. Perhaps this was a bit like what Corbyn was going through, that fear that whatever went onto the paper somehow wouldn’t be good enough. A wave of empathy washed over her, a sort of understanding that she had been lacking before.
Taking a breath, she closed her eyes. She saw a pair of familiar eyes, Corbyn’s at first, the way they watched her with a quiet intensity when she spoke. Then, another pair. These eyes were full of life, light dancing within their depths at the idea of finding another literary buff on a train.
Opening her eyes, she began to write.
New Year’s Eve, London Underground, 2009. The train car swayed, bodies pressed together like sardines as the Northern Line rumbled beneath the city. She hadn’t meant to meet his eyes, but once she did, the world seemed to slow. Blue eyes. Thebluest she’d ever seen, like a clear winter sky or the ocean on a perfect day. His hand brushed hers on the pole, and something electric passed between them, a spark she’d never forget.
She was pulled away too soon, never to learn the stranger’s name. Instead, she was left always wondering: what if?
She paused, surprised by how easily the words were flowing. She wasn’t sure why she had chosen that particular moment. It had been so brief, practically over before it even started. Yet, it had stuck with her all these years later. She’d never told anyone about that moment, about the stranger on the train or the way she had felt when his fingers brushed hers.
Looking down at the page once more, she continued writing. She wrote without judgment, without her internal editor questioning word choice or metaphor strength. This wasn’t for Jess, or Nate, or anyone else. There was no one here to call it “pretentious garbage.” This was for her alone, and that made it feel all the more precious.
Years later, she would imagine him sometimes and wonder if he remembered the girl with red hair clutching poetry books. Or if he too had felt that jolt, that spark that passed between them? She’d secretly imagined him living a thousand different lives. A writer, perhaps, or an artist. Someone who sees the world in all its beauty and pain. Someone who would have valued her words instead of burying them.
Sometimes, she even allowed herself to dream that they met again. No crowded train this time, but a quiet spot. A bookshop, maybe, both reaching for the same volume. Their fingers would touch, and when they felt that spark, they would look at each other and just know that they had been given a second chance.
After what might have been ten minutes or an hour, she paused, hand cramping slightly. She stretched her fingers, thenreturned to the beginning of what she’d written, curious to see what had emerged.
The words weren’t perfect. Some lines felt rushed, others relied on clichés she would circle in red if they appeared in someone else’s manuscript. But there was an authenticity, a glimpse of a voice she’d nearly forgotten was hers.
She flipped to a blank page, pen poised to keep going when her phone’s buzz cut through the quiet. The noise instantly pulled her out of the overlook’s calm. She stared at it, half-tempted to let it go to voicemail while she continued her communion with the page. But years of being available to her boss, authors, and even Nate, with his demands and emergencies, had conditioned her to respond. With a sigh, she reached for her bag, the spell of the moment breaking.
The screen lit up with a name, causing her smile to vanish instantly. Nate.
Sadie stared at the screen for a moment, wondering if she could simply ignore him and return to her writing. She glanced back at her notebook, at the words that had flowed so freely moments before. Now, though, all she could think of was the sneer on his face when he would read something of hers that she felt honestly had potential.
Before she could decide whether to answer or let it go to voicemail, the buzzing stopped, only to start again immediately. Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t going to give up easily, and with a reluctant sigh, Sadie answered the call.
“Hello, Nate.” She aimed for neutral, missing by miles as her voice emerged tight and thin.
His voice spilled out immediately, no greeting, no preamble, just a slurring growl that confirmed he’d been drinking. Based on the time difference, he had likely been out all night at the bar. Some things never change.
“You think you’re better off, huh? Hiding in some nowhere dump?” The words tumbled over each other, thick with spite.
Sadie’s stomach clenched. That particular tone usually preceded thrown objects or a lengthy lecture on her flaws and how everything was her fault. She glanced around at the peaceful hillside, suddenly feeling exposed despite being completely alone.
“Got yourself a cute little country vacation, playing editor to some hack writer?” he continued. “What happens when your little holiday is over?”
