Chapter One – Hana
The village of Elmsworth woke slowly, as it always did. The morning sun spilled across the fields like golden silk, casting long shadows behind the tall grass and fluttering leaves. Birds chirped lazily in the branches, and the occasional soft bleat of a goat echoed from the distant hills.
At the heart of the village, nestled between an old well and a mossy stone wall, stood a quaint little shop. Its wooden sign, faded but still legible, read: "Hana's Remedies & Repairs." The scent of dried herbs drifted from the open windows, mingling with the crisp scent of dew and earth.
Inside, the woman who ran the shop moved with quiet precision. Hana, dressed in her usual flowing white dress patterned with soft orange flowers, felt her way across the shelves with practiced ease. Her long brunette hair fell gently over her shoulders as she reached for a jar of lavender with one hand and traced the worn wooden counter with the other. To any stranger peeking in, she might seem to be dancing—every movement deliberate, smooth, and memorized.
She paused at the front counter and tilted her head slightly, sensing the warmth of the sunlight beginning to touch the front of the shop. Her lips curled into a small smile.
Outside, the village was beginning to stir. A cart rumbled past, wheels creaking. Somewhere down the road, children laughed. But within Hana's shop, time seemed to move differently—slower, softer.
A small bell rang from the door, and a young boy stepped in, clutching a worn satchel.
"Morning, Miss Hana," he called.
"Good morning, Oliver," she replied warmly, turning toward him. Her sightless eyes focused just above his shoulder, but her voice carried the weight of genuine attention. "Did your mother send you for the rosemary again?"
He nodded, then quickly realized his mistake. "Oh—uh, yes! Sorry, I nodded. Yes, she did."
"No need to be sorry," Hana said, already moving to a shelf on the left. "I remember where it is."
She retrieved a small brown bundle wrapped in twine and placed it into a paper pouch.
"Tell your mother to brew it slowly this time. No boiling. Let it steep. The last time she rushed it and gave herself a sore throat."
The boy grinned sheepishly. "She says you always know."
"I do," Hana replied, her smile deepening. "I just don't always tell."
He giggled, placed a few coins on the counter, and waved goodbye. "See you tomorrow!"
Hana nodded, listening to his retreating footsteps and the jingle of the bell. Silence returned, and with it, the comfortable rhythm of her solitude.
She returned to her worktable in the back of the shop. A basket of clothes sat there—hems to fix, buttons to replace, sleeves to patch. With gentle hands, she picked up a blouse and ran her fingers along its frayed edge.
Outside, clouds began to gather, the morning light dimming slightly. Rain was on its way. Hana could feel it in the change of air—cooler, denser, whispering secrets against her skin.
She didn't mind the rain.
Rain meant visitors.