Chapter 2
Elizabeth
Love is something I have always dreamed of, yet it’s always seemed just out of my reach, passing me by, leaving me broken and tired. With the sun streaming into my little cottage window, I sit at my late grandmother’s antique writing desk, contemplating the next part of my love story.
My notebook is full of the most perfect kind of love.
The kind of ‘once in a lifetime’ romance that little girls write about in their diaries.
Uncomplicated, passionate, and full of movie-like romance.
My life… not so much. At twenty-nine years old, I know that there is so much life left for me to live.
However, living alone is causing an ache I have never noticed until recently.
I crave the affection of a partner. Someone I can share my day with, be by my side and hold my hand through the hard times, because boy, do the hard times seem to find me.
I tie my hair up in a bun and settle into my cosy nook by the window.
I find myself watching my Yorkshire Terrier, Bear, whip through the garden, barking at a fluttering leaf that has fallen from the elm tree.
A small smile spreads across my lips and my heart swells watching my happy little companion prance around the garden without a care in the world.
We have just returned home from our morning walk to the coffee shop.
When I saw my yellow cottage on Sable Square in the distance, calmness washed over me.
It’s modest and worn by years of withstanding the sea salt air, but it’s mine and I love it.
My haven where nothing and no one can harm me.
The front garden is filled with the scent of lavender and lupins, reminding me of my childhood.
They were my mum’s favourite flowers when she was alive.
Sable Square is quiet. Sometimes too quiet, but it is the perfect place for a fresh start.
At twelve years old, I became obsessed with writing and had my first idea for a novel, a short story about a little house on the hill that was protected from everything the world had to throw at it.
Now, as I sit here, I realise my cottage is that little house on the hill, as if I manifested it from the pages of my notebook.
I write my deepest desires, hoping that one day they will manifest into the real world, just like my home did.
The sea breeze drifts softly into the cottage, carrying the faint scent of saltwater.
I curl into my favourite chair, an old shawl wrapped around my shoulders.
Bear pads his way sleepily over to my feet, the tapping of my fingers on my keyboard echoes through the small cottage, like a steady heartbeat as I transfer my morning notes from my notebook into the novel developing on my laptop.
My parents had called my writing a hobby at first, but they soon realised that for me, it was everything.
Writing is my lifeline, the way I make sense of the world and dream of making my mark.
I never left the house without a notebook and pen.
I still don’t. It’s the place where heroes protected me, where magic vibrated just beneath the surface, where hope was never out of reach, and ‘happily ever after’ lasted forever.
I glance down at my loyal pup, his tiny body curled tight like a knot. I mindlessly stroke his soft fur, feeling his small chest rise and fall with deep sleep.
“Ready for our next chapter, boy?” I ask, half expecting him to reply. He lifts his head, and I’m sure that he understands what I am saying.
The fire crackles as if it’s trying to tell me something I don’t yet understand. I close my notebook, place my laptop on the coffee table, and watch the flames flicker, daydreaming about what might come next.