What The Heart Remembers

The early morning fog had already settled across Blue Ridge when Clara woke up. It was the kind of fog that made the whole town feel muffled, as if everything had been wrapped in cotton overnight. The air had the faint smell of wet earth and pine, a scent she had grown used to all her life. She didn’t need to open her eyes, because she never did, but she still blinked out of habit, letting herself adjust to the quiet of the room. Her hands searched automatically for the wooden tray she kept beside her bed. She found it, just where she had left it the night before. A smooth, cool block of fresh clay waited for her. She felt its damp surface and let out a small breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Working with clay always grounded her, especially on mornings like this when the fog muted the world. She lifted the clay with both hands and set it on her lap. Her fingers pressed into it gently at first, then more firmly as she felt it respond to her touch. This was her routine... Waking up in the morning, feeling the clay, letting her hands stretch, warming up, and remembering what they were good at. She didn’t rush. She liked letting her fingers wander across the clay, finding the right pressure, smoothing out the rough patches, and shaping it little by little. Some people started their mornings with having coffee and getting dressed for work. Clara started hers by letting the day reveal itself through touch. She worked like that for nearly an hour, shaping the clay without thinking too hard about what it was going to be. Sometimes it turned into a face, sometimes just an abstract curve she found comforting. Today it didn’t matter. She simply enjoyed the texture and the way it pushed back just enough. After a while her shoulders started to get stiff, and she knew she had been sitting too long. She brushed the clay off her hands and set the tray aside. Her cane leaned against the bedside table, but she didn’t need it inside the house. She knew every corner by heart. She stood up and made her way toward the kitchen. The floorboards creaked the same way they always had, giving her a sense of direction with each step. When she reached the small table by the window, she placed her hand on the chair and sat down. The window was open just a little, and she could hear the soft rustling of leaves outside. Clara turned the kettle on and waited for it to heat. Making coffee was another routine she liked. The kettle gave off a faint hum and then a sharp click. She poured the hot water into her mug, the scent of instant coffee comforting in its familiarity. She cupped the mug with both hands and leaned slightly toward the window, listening. Birds chirped somewhere far off. The creek behind the house rushed over rocks, steady and full. The wind brushed through the trees, carrying the sound of shifting leaves. She couldn’t see any of it, of course, but she didn’t feel like she was missing anything in that moment. The sounds painted a picture she had known her whole life... Blue Ridge in the morning, quiet and half-asleep. She sipped her coffee and breathed in the steam. The warmth settled into her chest, making the early chill more bearable. Clara had been blind since birth. She had never seen what mountains looked like, or what fog rolling across them really meant. People tried to explain it to her over the years, some using big descriptions, others talking like she was fragile. She always appreciated the effort, but none of it gave her something she could picture. And that was fine. She learned to see with what she had through sound, touch, scent, and memory. Her mother had died right after giving birth to her. The story was always told to her with gentle voices, as if people were scared the truth might break her. She didn’t remember the woman, of course, but she sometimes imagined what her voice might have sounded like. The thought wasn’t sad anymore. Just something distant. As for her father, she never knew anything about him. Not a name, not a story, not even a rumor. Growing up, she used to imagine he was some kind of traveler who had gotten stuck in town for a short while. Other times she pictured him as someone who simply couldn’t stay or wasn’t ready to be a parent. As she got older, she realized she didn’t really need to know. The people of Blue Ridge had always filled that space anyway. Everyone in town helped raise her in their own way. Some taught her how to navigate the trails; others taught her how to find her way around the shop. They brought her materials to sculpt, checked on her when storms came, and made sure she was never left out of town events. She may not have had a traditional family, but she was surrounded by people who cared enough to act like one. She took another sip of her coffee and smiled slightly as the foghorn from a far off truck echoed through the valley. It wasn’t near her, but sound carried strangely through the fog, always making things feel closer or farther depending on the day. When she finished her drink, she stood and felt for the counter to wash her mug. Her hands learned the edges by muscle memory. She placed the mug upside down on the drying rack and wiped her fingers on her shirt out of habit. There were probably still tiny bits of clay stuck under her nails, but she didn’t mind. Clay was part of her daily life; she practically smelled like it. She walked back into her room to pick up her cane before heading outside. The fog was thick enough that even people with perfect vision would have had trouble seeing clearly. She stepped cautiously onto the small porch and listened to the familiar crunch of gravel beneath her shoes. The air was cool and slightly damp. She liked mornings like this because they made everything sound closer. Even the creek sounded louder than usual, as if it had moved nearer overnight. She tapped her cane along the path leading to the craft shop, which she shared with a couple of older women from town. They sold pottery, wood carvings, knitted blankets, and small handcrafted souvenirs for hikers passing through the area. Clara did most of the pottery. People bought her work not because she was blind but because they genuinely liked how her pieces felt. It was smooth, warm, and shaped with intention. She reached the door of the shop and felt for the handle. It was a little cold from the weather. When she stepped inside, the familiar smell of wood, paint, and drying clay welcomed her. The shelves were always packed, though she didn’t arrange them herself. The others kept things tidy and marked items with cords and tags she could identify through touch. Clara heard the ticking of the old wall clock and the hum of the ceiling fan. The shop wasn’t open yet, but she liked arriving early, before customers started coming in. It gave her time to work without distractions. She set her cane by the wall and moved to her small workstation near the back. The clay she had been shaping earlier sat on the tray, ready for her hands again. She sat, took a deep breath, and began smoothing out the sides, letting the shape come naturally. While she worked, she thought about how long she had lived in Blue Ridge. Twenty-four years. The mountains had always been her home. She knew the way the town sounded at different times of day, the way snow felt on her skin, the smell of the forest after rain. She knew how to walk through the market without bumping into stalls, how to find the best fruit by running her thumb along the skin, and how to recognize regulars in the shop by the rhythm of their voices. She didn’t think often about life outside Blue Ridge. People talked about the city and the noise and the endless lights. She wasn’t sure if she’d like something like that. Out here, she could hear everything clearly. She didn’t have to worry about getting lost or overwhelmed. She worked on the clay for what felt like a long time, adjusting the curve of what might become a shoulder or maybe a piece of scenery. She wasn’t sure yet. She let her hands guide her. As she shaped the clay, she hummed quietly. She didn’t even notice she was humming until she stopped and the silence felt too empty. After another hour she heard footsteps outside the shop. Someone was walking slowly along the gravel path. Probably a neighbor or one of the early hikers checking if the shop was open. She knew people often peeked through the window to see if the lights were on. She wiped her clay-stained hands on a rag and listened carefully. The footsteps faded. Whoever it was had probably passed by. Clara leaned back in her chair and rested her hands on her lap. She felt tired in a good way, like she had already accomplished enough for the morning. Blue Ridge was peaceful like that. Every day began quietly, without rush, without chaos. Her fingers traced the clay one more time. She didn’t know what she was building yet, but she didn’t need to. The important thing was that it felt familiar beneath her hands—steady, responsive, and ready to become something. Outside, the fog still hugged the mountains, and the town was beginning to stir. She could hear distant car engines and faint conversations. People greeting each other the way they always did. Clara smiled to herself. For someone who had lost her mother at birth and never knew her father, she still felt like she had a place in the world. She wasn’t lonely. She wasn’t forgotten. She belonged to this town and the people in it, and that was enough to make her mornings feel whole. Today would be like any other. Just simple, slow, and familiar, and she had no idea how much her quiet life was about to change...