The road to Willowmere twisted through the countryside like a quiet whisper, flanked by endless trees just beginning to bloom with early spring. Evelyn Hart tightened her grip on the steering wheel, the weight of uncertainty pressing harder with every passing mile. Her mother's cottage—now hers—was tucked near the edge of the lake, far enough from town to feel like the edge of the world.
She hadn't been back since she was twelve.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the cottage. The paint was faded, the shutters hung unevenly, and weeds clawed their way up the porch steps like ghosts trying to return home. Evelyn stared for a long moment, heart aching.
"This is it," she whispered.
She stepped out, breathing in the crisp air. It smelled of pine, damp earth, and something softer—like nostalgia. Inside, the cottage was dusty, but preserved. A blanket still draped the old rocking chair. A cracked photograph of her mother stood on the mantel, smiling like she hadn't been gone for over a year.
Grief settled around Evelyn's shoulders, familiar and unwelcome. She didn't cry. Not yet. There was too much to do.
She spent the afternoon cleaning, opening windows to let the wind breathe life into the stillness. By dusk, she collapsed onto the porch steps, sipping from a chipped mug of instant coffee. That's when she heard it—the low growl of a chainsaw cutting through the quiet.
Her gaze drifted to the property next door, where a tall man in a flannel shirt and worn jeans was working beneath the shadow of an old oak. His back was to her, strong and deliberate in movement. He turned slightly, wiping sweat from his brow, and their eyes met.
He paused, surprised.
Evelyn raised a hand, unsure. He offered a curt nod before returning to work, the chainsaw whirring to life again.
The wind shifted, carrying the faintest echo of music—like a memory she couldn't quite place.
Later that evening, Evelyn found a note tucked under a smooth stone on her porch:
"If you need tools or help with the fence, just knock. —Liam."
She held the note in her hand for a long time, the name ringing a distant bell. Liam Mercer. The boy who once played guitar by the lake. The boy her mother had always warned her would break hearts.
He hadn't left Willowmere. And now, it seemed, neither had she.