A Storytelling Sunday Mystery
She had planned the weekend to be completely quiet. A forest trail she’d never hiked, a tucked-away campsite near a lake so still it mirrored the sky. No service. No distractions. Just solitude and the slow, grounding rhythm of being alone in the woods.
She brought her favorite things: a tin of rose chai, a canvas-bound journal, and one book she never quite finished. On her second evening, just as the sun began to lower and the cicadas stirred, she left her tent to stretch her legs along the main trail loop.
That’s when she noticed the other path.
It was narrow—just a split in the trees, really—and dappled with light so filtered it almost looked underwater. She could have sworn it hadn’t been there the day before. There was no sign, no trail marker, and yet it curved off with an odd sort of purpose. Not wild. Worn.
Curiosity tugged her forward. She followed.
The trees grew thicker, the air cooler. The trail led to a clearing she couldn’t explain, because nestled at the center was a cabin.
A small one. Whitewashed stone, aged wood. Blue shutters. Laundry fluttered on a line, though there was no wind. A hammock swayed gently. Bundles of herbs—lavender, rosemary, sage—hung in neat rows under the eaves. It was all still. Too still.
No sound. No birdsong. No footsteps in the soft earth.
She didn’t stay long. Something about the place—beautiful as it was—felt like touching something you weren’t meant to find. Like entering a memory that wasn’t yours.
She turned back.
The trail felt different on the way out. A little longer. A little darker. When she finally returned to her campsite, she half-wondered if she’d imagined it.
But the next morning, when she tried to find the trail again—it was gone.
She stood at the same fork. Trees unchanged. Moss undisturbed. But the path that had opened like a breath in the woods was no longer there.
Instead, hanging from the low branches where the path should have been, were three bundles of herbs. Lavender, rosemary, sage. Tied with blue thread.
She walked back slowly, pulse a little faster now, trying not to let her imagination stretch too far.
That night, she woke up cold.
Not from the temperature—but from the stillness. The kind of quiet that presses. She unzipped her sleeping bag, sat up, and saw it:
A journal. Resting right beside her pack.
It wasn’t hers.
This one was leather, soft with age. The cover bore no marks. Inside, the pages were lined and filled—some with her handwriting. Others not.
She flipped to the first entry. It was dated yesterday.
“Saw it again today. Same shutters. Same herbs. Same silence.”
Another page:
“Why does it feel like I’ve already been inside?”
Then a sketch. The cabin, drawn in clear strokes. Even the curve of the laundry line was right.
More pages. Some words hers. Some not.
“You’ve been here before.”
“You’ve been here before.”
“You’ve been here before.”
The phrase repeated in different ink, different spacing. Over and over.
She reached a page dated five days ahead.
“Don’t go past the trailhead at dusk.”
She closed the journal. Her hands were shaking.
Morning came too slow. When the sun finally breached the trees, she packed quickly, not even finishing her tea. The forest felt too quiet, too watchful.
But as she shouldered her pack, she paused.
There was a new page in the journal. Dated today.
It only said:
“You left something behind.”
She’s not sure how long she stood there, rereading it. Eventually, she slipped the journal into her bag.
She doesn’t remember what she left. Or if she really saw the house at all. But sometimes, she swears she hears a line of laundry snapping in windless air, or smells lavender in the middle of her apartment hallway.
And every summer since, she writes—but never on the last page.
Some journals hold more than memories. The Memories Linger Here Journal is made for the moments that feel like déjà vu—half-real, half-remembered, and wholly yours.
We will see you next story telling Sunday!
Warmly,
The Cozy Corner by Durazza
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