Chapter 2
743 Words
Evelyn walked, arms wrapped tightly around herself as the cold bit at her exposed skin. Her heels clicked sharply against the cobbled road, echoing louder than she liked. Heads turned as she passed—curious, confused stares from men in suspenders and women in bonnets. She could feel them whispering, watching.
She ignored them. Mostly.
Her thin black dress was doing nothing to fight off the growing chill. Her hair was messy and wet. She was sure she looked like a scarecrow at the moment.
With a frustrated grunt, she stopped, slipped off her heels, and held them in one hand. The clicking stopped, but the stares didn’t.
She kept walking. No clue where she was going. No clue what she was looking for.
The sky darkened quickly, and the air thickened with snow. Gentle at first. Then heavier. And heavier still. Within minutes, the streets were veiled in white. Lantern lights glowed faintly through the storm. Doors shut. Windows closed. The town folded in on itself as the storm swallowed it whole.
The cold was getting unbearable. Her bare feet were sinking into the icy ground, and each step sent a fresh shock of pain crawling up her legs. The sting of cold was no longer just discomfort—it was a warning.
Frostbite.
Her mind screamed it. She looked down at her numb toes, the skin already pale and raw, and panic began to rise in her chest.
She had to move. She had to go somewhere—anywhere.
But where?
Turning around slowly, Evelyn realized she’d wandered farther than she thought. The streets all looked the same now, washed in white, blurred by falling snow. Wooden signs hung limp above shuttered shops. Doors were bolted. Curtains drawn. No one was outside anymore. The world had closed in, and she was the only one left wandering through it.
She spun in place, searching for something—anything—familiar.
Then it hit her.
The baker. He'd shown her his shop earlier all she needed to do now was find it and then just maybe she'll survive the night.
She turned back, trudging through the slush, snow crunching under her frozen feet. The wind howled louder in the narrower alleys she passed. The homes grew smaller, the paint faded. She was passing through the slums now—old, weather-worn buildings, silent and empty.
Everything was closed. Everything was dark.
Except one flicker of light.
Evelyn squinted through the snowfall, her heart lurching with hope.
The bakery.
She rushed forward, limbs numb and clumsy, and banged on the wooden door with both hands. Once. Twice. Three times.
Finally, the door creaked open.
Jacob stood there, face tight with confusion—then shock as he took in the sight of her: soaked, shaking, barefoot, and nearly blue.
He didn’t say a word.
He simply reached out and pulled her inside.
Warmth wrapped around her like an embrace. The scent of fresh bread, cinnamon, sugar, and something buttery filled the air. It smelled like comfort, like holidays, like everything she never thought she’d long for.
She stumbled slightly, her body giving out now that it was finally safe.
Jacob caught her elbow gently and guided her toward a wooden chair near the fire.
“You’re frozen through,” he muttered, half to himself.
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a heavy blanket and a steaming mug.
“Drink,” he said simply, placing it in her shaking hands.
She looked down. Hot chocolate—or something close. Rich, thick, and warm.
She took a sip.
The warmth spread through her chest, calming the tremble in her fingers. It tasted like something homemade—sweet but not overwhelming, with a hint of spice she couldn’t place. Whatever it was, it was comforting.
Jacob returned to the hearth, adjusting a log with the iron poker. Sparks leapt upward, casting dancing shadows along the walls. Evelyn glanced around for the first time. The room was simple but full of life. Worn wooden shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, jars, and hand-carved trinkets. A rocking chair creaked gently in one corner, and beside it, a patchwork quilt draped over a low bench.
It felt lived-in. Real.
“How do you feel?” Jacob asked, not turning.
She hesitated. “Like I’ve landed in someone else’s memory.”
He gave a soft chuckle, more thoughtful than amused. “That’s not the worst way to describe Angelvale.”
- Writer
