A Storytelling Sunday Mystery
She hadn’t meant to wander so far.
It started as a late afternoon walk—nothing ambitious. A turn down a dirt path, a pause to watch sunlight flicker through the branches. The kind of walk meant to clear your head, not carry you somewhere.
But the trail never looped back.
She walked for hours. The light stayed strangely steady. Not fading. Just… warm. Golden. Suspended.
When she found the cottage, it was already familiar.
It sat at the edge of a path overgrown with pale wildflowers, its doors open to the breeze, windows catching the last light like glassy eyes. Inside, the walls were washed green, the floor tiled with gold. A curtain moved softly near the door. And beyond it, the sea.
You could see the ocean clearly from the threshold—just beyond the hedgerows, the path, the shimmer of leaves. Close enough to taste the salt on the air.
She stayed.
At first, just for a night. The cottage was warm and dry, the air rich with rosemary and something sweeter she couldn’t name. There was a book already open on the table, pressed flowers tucked inside. And not a single clock.
Each morning, she brewed tea from the herbs on the windowsill and packed a small bag. Then she stepped through the doorway and followed the path down to the sea.
But she never reached it.
No matter how far she walked, the beach stayed just beyond the hedgerow. The path would curve, gently, endlessly. A slight rise here, a patch of ferns there. The light never quite changed.
She told herself she must be missing the turn. That she'd try again tomorrow, more carefully. But by the end of the week, she stopped trying to understand it.
The house felt outside of explanation. The days passed like water in a shallow stream—soft, slow, golden. Her journal filled without her remembering writing. The book on the table never changed pages. And the breeze always carried the sound of waves she could not reach.
She began to forget the shape of other things. Her phone, long dead, rested untouched. She no longer thought about work, or what she had left in the fridge. Even her name felt... backgrounded. Like a story she had heard once and couldn’t quite retell.
There was a peace to it. But also a question.
One evening, standing in the doorway, she whispered aloud, “Why won’t it let me leave?”
And in that moment, the wind stilled. The trees fell quiet. Only the ocean remained—rolling gently in the distance, its edge just out of reach.
She thought about walking again tomorrow. Just one more try. She always did.
But for now, the light was golden. The curtain breathed beside her. The page lay open. And the sea, as always, waited somewhere just beyond the path.
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We will see you next story telling Sunday!
Warmly,
The Cozy Corner by Durazza
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