Note from a stranger

Name: Note from a stranger
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Tamuz14

Romance | Ongoing

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When a mysterious letter arrives at her brownstone apartment, Clara Vance-an editor nursing heartbreak in the heart of Manhattan-finds herself drawn into the story of a town that doesn't exist on any map. Her curiosity eventually leads her to Eli Dawson, a quiet artist with his own secrets. Clara begins to unravel a past that may not be entirely hers with the assistance of her jovial roommate Marla, a reclusive bookseller by the name of Bea, and letters signed by an unknown individual. A moving tale about second chances, quiet places, and the kind of love that comes out of nowhere. October in New York City A coppery wax stamp without initials sealed the creamy white envelope, which was thick and textured. It was in Clara Vance's mailbox, between an unsubscribed issue of The New Yorker and an electric bill. She opened it in the hallway, leaning against the peeling paint of the front door of her brownstone. The bookstore café down the hall was emitting the scent of roasted coffee beans. > "To the girl who forgets to look up: There's a place that misses you. Locate it. It is standing by the lake." There was no signature. merely a return address from Davenport's Reach, New York, a place she'd never heard of. In their tiny, sun-drenched kitchen, she showed it to Marla that night over wine and leftover pad thai. Marla read it twice. "This is either a stalker, a marketing ploy, or an angel whose handwriting is terrible." Too exhausted to care, Clara laughed. "Or the incorrect Vance was simply discovered by mail," The name Davenport's Reach, on the other hand, lingered in her mind as she lay in bed later. The Last Page was run by Bea Kensington. It was a bookstore café on Amsterdam Avenue that was hidden between two flower shops. The shelves creaked, the scones were always warm, and the regulars mostly brought their own mugs. Clara had edited novels there for three years. It was there that Julian Park broke off their engagement six months after she fell in love with him. It was also where she met Rosa, the barista who brewed heartbreak the same way she brewed espresso-bold and with a twist of sarcasm. Before Clara spoke, the letter was noticed by Bea. "That's Davenport's Reach," the old woman said, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses. "I haven't heard that name in fifty years." "Have you been there?" "More like I left it behind," Bea said. "Before the city pulled me in. There are some places you only visit in letters or dreams. Clara felt the pull again. not only of the location but also of the story. An editor's curse. "Do you think it's real?" Bea sipped her tea. "Does it matter? If a place is written well enough, it might as well be." She met him on the F train. Clara's tote bag had tipped over, spilling manuscripts all over the floor, and it was crowded. He knelt down to assist her and handed her the pages without observing. A sketchbook was in his lap, and his fingers were covered in ink. "Thanks," she said, catching her breath. He responded, glancing at the title of the manuscript, "No problem." "That one has a sad ending." "Have you read it?" He nodded. "Once. In a different life." His name was Eli Dawson. He lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn, painted portraits that looked like they missed someone, and rarely smiled with his eyes. There was something about him that made Clara feel like she had just walked into the second chapter of something she should've started long ago. They started running into each other more-on the train, in Central Park, in the bookstore. Rosa called it "a plot device." The second letter came with a pressed leaf. > "The lake turns silver in October. That's when the geese start calling. You always said the silence there was louder than the subway." It made Clara ache. Over breakfast, she told Marla. "It's like they know things I've never said aloud." Marla played with a spoon. "Maybe they do. Perhaps you are writing to yourself. Your future self." "Or my past." The letters kept coming. Stories were sometimes told. Occasionally, lists Once, a map of a lakeside town with no roads in or out. She told Eli about them on a walk through Central Park, leaves crunching beneath their boots. He looked distant. "My brother used to send me letters like that. After his stroke, he forgot most things but remembered places that never existed." "Henry?" Eli nodded. "I had no idea he was sick," I said. He's doing better now. But changed. He paints only one thing now-a dock, on a lake, with a red canoe. Julian Park appeared at her doorstep one rainy afternoon, hair wet, eyes nostalgic. "I saw your name on a galley proof," he said. "Missing you." Clara's response was, "You missed owning me." "There is a distinction." Life, to Julian, was always like a chessboard. Clara had had enough of him being his queen. The next day, she ran into Zadi Thompson-Eli's ex-at The Last Page. Zadi was all angles and red lips. "You're the editor," Zadi said, leani

Thriller Suspense Betrayal Forced love Sexual slave Scheming Attractive Mediaeval

Chapter 10 Fractures in the ritual

06-28 16:26

Chapter 1 Letters written in October

Chapter 1

Letters written in October

The letter arrived on a golden Thursday in October, the kind of day New York City wrapped itself in amber light and copper leaves. Clara Vance held the envelope like it was a warm breath from the past-no return address, only the familiar, slanted script: Eli Dawson.

Clara sat in the bookstore café on the corner of 81st and Madison by the fog-covered window. A cinnamon-scented paperback in her lap, but her eyes fixed on the envelope. Outside, Central Park shimmered with fall's flame-yellow gingko trees lined the pathways like memories frozen in motion. A child's laugh rang out like a songbird. Somewhere, a street violinist played Autumn Leaves.

However, Clara did not move. She hadn't heard from Eli in six years.

A week later, Clara boarded a train to a lakeside town called Wexley-population 6,000, four churches, and one bakery that smelled like heaven. She hadn't been back since their last argument.

The house he mentioned in the letter stood on the hill overlooking Lake Harriet, wrapped in red ivy and forgotten wood. He was waiting on the porch.

Eli Dawson had changed. Not in the way time changes men with beer bellies or bald spots. He wore the same brown leather coat with patches on the elbows, was still lean and strong-jawed. But his eyes-those gray, unspeakably kind eyes-looked more tired, and yet, more certain.

Clara stood still, breath catching in her throat. The lake's breeze made her scarf flutter. "Hey, Vance," he said, smiling the way a man smiles when memory and hope blur together.

Clara laughed softly, and her hand rose to her mouth like she was trying to hold something in.

They walked along the lake as the sky burned orange and deep purple. Ducks stirred the water in V-formations. Eli spoke gently, like the words had waited for years. He told her about his father's passing, about restoring the old house, about how he'd never fallen in love again. That caused a slight crack in his voice. Clara's eyes welled, but she didn't let them fall. Her fingers touched his coat sleeve as if she were testing something real.

He revealed, "I wrote letters." "Every year, same week. I never, however, sent them. Until this one."

"Why now?" she whispered.

"Because silence grew to be more damaging than rejection." Back at the house, Clara stepped inside slowly, running her fingers across the dusty piano, the books, the old oil paintings of women with unreadable eyes. Cedar and something older, unspoken, permeated the air. Dinner was simple-rosemary chicken and a bottle of red wine he saved from a trip they took to Bordeaux. She laughed at the cork crumbling. Like people who remembered how sacred it was to sit across from someone who once knew everything about you, he lit candles and they ate slowly. When she stood to take her plate, he touched her wrist.

"Stay."

She looked at him. The air between them tightened, suddenly charged. Her face softened, her lips parted. She stepped close.

He brushed a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. Her lashes fluttered. He kissed her-tentatively at first, as if seeking permission from time itself.

Then it deepened.

Their mouths moved with a tender urgency, his hand slipping around her waist, hers tangling in the back of his hair. His lips were warm, a little rough, tasting of wine and longing. She moaned softly into him, and he responded, lifting her gently onto the kitchen table, the candlelight casting golden shadows across her face.

She looked at him through half-closed lids, her chest rising with quick, short breaths. He kissed her neck-slowly, reverently-and she arched slightly, pulling his face closer.

He paused, forehead resting against hers. "Are you positive?" Her answer was a whisper, trembling and bold. "Yes."

Everything slowed down upstairs, and each touch was deliberate. Her sweater slid off her shoulders, revealing smooth skin flushed with warmth. He kissed the hollow between her collarbones, her fingers clutching at his shirt, tugging it free.

She gasped as his hands ran down her sides, thumbs brushing her ribs. He memorized the way her body moved beneath his touch, how her lips trembled when she whispered his name.

He walked into her with the grace of someone who had waited too long for something and was afraid it might never happen. Their rhythm built from soft to certain, her breath catching, then melting into soft cries that matched the creaks of the old bed.

Their faces stayed close-cheeks brushing, foreheads touching. He watched her eyes, the way they glistened and closed. She cupped his face, tracing his cheek with her thumb as her body trembled beneath him.

They then slept together with his arm around her waist and her back against his chest. No words. Nothing more than the steady rise and fall of breath and the wind of October blowing through windows. He gave her one of the letters that night. "I never stopped loving you, Clara. I just stopped believing you'd come back."

She turned, nestled into him, and whispered, "I was always on my way."

The morning light spilled lazily across the hardwood floors of the apartment Clara shared with her roommate, Marla Kent. The scent of cinnamon toast and yesterday's forgotten red wine filled the air-a perfect snapshot of their chaotic harmony. Marla humming to herself as she flipped through a battered record collection while dancing barefoot in the kitchen in a vintage band t-shirt tied at the waist. "You're glowing, Clara," Marla said with a grin, not looking up. "Eli stayed over, didn't he?"

Clara just smiled as she curled up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of coffee. Marla had known before she'd even opened her eyes.

Eli Dawson had a quiet presence. While Clara sparkled, Eli steadied-calm, thoughtful, and strangely magnetic. Everyone noticed him when he entered a room, but not because he demanded it. He simply was.

Down the street, nestled between a florist and a tattoo parlor, was Kensington Books, the bookstore where Clara worked part-time. Bea Kensington, its elderly owner, insisted on still writing inventory in ledgers by hand. With a mind sharp as a tack and a tongue sharper still, Bea saw everything. She adored Clara-reminding her often of her younger self-and offered advice without asking. As for Eli, Bea watched him with knowing eyes and whispered once, "Still waters like him hide deep roots."

Behind the café counter, Rosa, the part-time barista with a poet's soul and ink-stained fingers, observed the shifting moods of the shop's visitors like a seismograph. She liked Clara, was wary of Eli, and didn't hide her irritation when Zadie Thompson walked in last Thursday, all lipstick and regret.

Eli's ex-girlfriend Zadie was the kind of person who wore drama like perfume and stayed with people long after she left. Her history with Eli had been complicated and brief, but not forgettable. She'd breezed into the bookstore just as Clara was shelving poetry, offered a tight-lipped smile, and whispered to Rosa, "Tell Eli I said hi."

Then there was Julian Park, Clara's ex-fiancé. Clean-cut, composed, and freshly promoted at his firm, Julian had once planned their wedding with color-coded spreadsheets. He'd let Clara go when he realized she needed more poetry and less precision-but he never stopped checking her Instagram stories.

And finally, Henry Loomis, Eli's older brother. If Eli was water, Henry was fire. Opinionated, ambitious, and always a little too loud at family dinners. He'd warned Eli about Clara-told him she was impulsive, too fragile. "She's a walking heartbreak waiting to happen," Henry had said, straight to Clara's face at a Thanksgiving that ended early.

But Clara stayed. And Eli didn't flinch.

In a world crowded with exes, opinions, and well-meaning chaos, Clara and Eli found a strange peace in each other. It felt like the only thing that made sense in the midst of everything-Marla's laughter, Bea's wisdom, Rosa's glances, Zadie's games, Julian's ghost, and Henry's warnings-their love was quiet. Even if, deep down, they both knew: love like theirs never came without consequence.

300 Words: Clara Finds a New Letter A few days later, Clara returned to the dusty alcove behind the library archives, not out of hope, but habit. She had told herself the first letter was a fluke-some forgotten relic left by a stranger. But she had hoped for more, the part of her that couldn't stop thinking about the strange way the words seemed to understand her. And then I saw it. Folded neatly, as if waiting.

This one picked up where the last ended, beginning mid-thought: "...and if you still ache when you breathe, that means you're still alive. Alive enough to heal." Clara froze, heart pounding. It was as if the letter had anticipated her return. The writer once more talked about the struggle to appear whole while actually crumbling inside, of invisible pain and strength. No names, no dates-just words that echoed wounds she never voiced aloud.

"Some nights you'll wonder if the silence is punishment or peace. Either way, keep listening. Someone's always listening back."

Her eyes stung. These weren't journal entries or random musings. They felt... intended. Crafted for her. The letter referenced no specific trauma, yet mirrored her own-the loneliness after her mother's death, the hollow quiet of her father's house, the fracture left by a lost friendship she pretended not to miss.

Was it coincidence? A cruel ploy? Or was someone truly watching?

She folded the paper slowly, her hands trembling. Whoever the writer was, they knew her-or knew enough. And Clara wasn't sure if that made her feel better or scared her more. Clara woke up the following morning to find her bedroom window smashed. She didn't remember opening it.

The curtains swayed as though someone had just left, and the icy scent of night permeated the room. Her skin prickled. She rushed to the alcove that afternoon, heart racing, breath tight. No letter.

Only a single pressed lily, crushed slightly at the stem.

A memory surfaced-her mother's funeral,