Isla
The air around the hills of Ashmill grew colder as my car pushed through the winding backroads, fog crawling low across the earth like a living thing. The road to my mother’s old cottage always felt like a passage through time—one foot in the present, the other pulled back into memory.
The trees lining the gravel road bent under the weight of the mist, branches reaching toward me like bony fingers. The closer I came, the more the world seemed to hush. Even the birds didn’t dare break the silence here.
Finally, the cottage appeared—tucked beneath ivy and time, its stone walls weathered but standing firm, the shutters trembling slightly in the cold breeze. I stepped out of the car, letting the wind whip my coat around me. The key was still hidden in the hollow of the old birch tree b
