Chapter 2 – The Strange Encounter
The morning sun in Windale was nothing like the city Aria had left behind. Instead of bursting through glass towers and painting the concrete gold, here it filtered softly through layers of mist and old oak trees. The light felt fragile, as though it had to fight its way through shadows that refused to leave.
Aria wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck as she stepped out of the Crestwood Inn. The innkeeper had given her a polite nod that morning but no conversation. Even the clatter of breakfast plates had seemed hushed, like everything in this town was carefully measured.
She carried her notebook in hand, hoping the fresh air might clear her head after the unnerving whispers of the previous night. Yet, as she walked along the cobblestone path leading to Windale Square, she couldn’t shake the memory of that disembodied voice: Don’t trust him.
“Who was him?” she muttered under her breath. The thought of writing it down in her diary had seemed too real, too permanent. Better to leave it hanging, unanswered, at least for now.
Windale Square was quiet but beautiful. A fountain stood in the center, its water glimmering faintly under the morning sun, though no one sat around it. Shops lined the streets—an old bakery, a florist, a bookstore—but their shutters were still drawn, as if the town woke much later than its people.
Aria chose the bookstore, a narrow place with a hand-painted sign that read Hollow Pages. Its windows were dusty, its door slightly crooked, but something about it drew her in. Perhaps it was instinct. Or perhaps it was fate.
The door creaked as she pushed it open. Inside, the air smelled of old paper and cedarwood. Shelves stretched high, stacked with leather-bound volumes whose titles were faded beyond recognition. A faint fire crackled somewhere in the back, giving the place a strange warmth despite its gloom.
And then she saw him.
He was leaning against a shelf, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other lazily holding a book he didn’t seem to be reading. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that fell messily over his forehead. His eyes lifted when she entered, and in that instant Aria felt something sharp pierce through the haze of her thoughts.
Those eyes—grey, stormy, unreadable—looked at her not like a stranger but as though he knew her.
“Looking for something?” His voice was low, carrying the same rough edge as gravel underfoot.
Aria blinked, caught off guard. “I—just exploring. I just arrived yesterday.”
His lips curved into the faintest smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not many people come to Windale without a reason.”
There was something unsettling in the way he said it. Aria forced a small laugh. “I’m a writer. Thought I’d spend some time here. Quiet towns make good muses.”
“A writer,” he repeated softly, as if testing the word. His gaze lingered on her notebook. “Be careful. Windale has stories of its own. Sometimes they don’t like to be written.”
The remark sent a chill through her, though his tone hadn’t been threatening—just matter-of-fact. She clutched the notebook closer. “And you are…?”
“Ethan,” he said simply. “Ethan Cross.”
The name sat heavy in the air, as though it carried weight beyond its syllables. Aria nodded politely. “Aria Bennett.”
Ethan tilted his head. “Aria,” he repeated, and the sound of her name on his tongue felt strangely intimate. “You’re staying at the Crestwood Inn?”
She stiffened. “How did you—”
He cut her off, his expression unreadable. “Everyone knows when someone new arrives. Windale isn’t a town for strangers.”
Aria swallowed, unsure how to respond. Before she could, the bell above the door jingled faintly, though no one had come in. She turned quickly, half-expecting another visitor, but the doorway was empty. Just the mist swirling outside.
When she glanced back, Ethan had straightened, slipping the book he held back into its place. “Stay away from the woods, Miss Bennett. They’re… not safe.”
Her heart gave a quick jolt. “Why? What happens in the woods?”
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—fear, anger, or maybe regret. Then it was gone. “Just don’t go there.”
And with that, he brushed past her, the faint scent of smoke and pine trailing behind him as he pushed open the crooked door and disappeared into the fog.
Aria stood frozen, pulse racing. He had appeared suddenly, spoken like someone who knew more than he would admit, and left her with more questions than answers.
She exhaled shakily and forced herself to wander deeper into the bookstore. She traced her fingers along spines of books, half-distracted, until one volume slid out with unusual ease. The cover was dark green leather, its title nearly erased. When she opened it, the first page bore a handwritten message:
“To the one who listens, the town will speak. Beware the voice in the fog.”
Her fingers trembled as she shut the book.
The bell above the door jingled again. This time, she was certain she saw someone outside—a shadowy figure in the mist, watching her through the glass.
When she stepped quickly to the door and pulled it open, the street was empty. Only silence, fog, and the fountain’s distant trickle greeted her.
Aria closed the door, heart hammering. She told herself she had come here to write, to find inspiration. But already, within twenty-four hours, Windale had begun to write its story through her.
And Ethan Cross—mysterious, distant, strangely knowing—was already part of it.
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Next part is coming......
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Heartfelt thanks to everyone for staying with the story till the very end. If I’ve made any mistakes while writing, I hope you’ll kindly overlook them. Every single comment from you is truly precious to me, because a writer’s greatest inspiration comes from the readers’ response. How you felt about the story, which part touched you, or where it could have been improved—sharing these thoughts will add new colors to my future writings. Your love and feedback are the fuel for my pen, so please don’t forget to leave a comment.
