Moonlit Novella

Chapter Two

The attic was cramped and dust-laden; the lingering scent of aged wood enveloped the lost things that sat idly about. Ivy hadn’t expected to find much up here, besides a few boxes of forgotten junk, but the old white cloth suspended off in the corner caught her eye immediately. At first, the phantom sheet had startled her, jolting her backward, before a thought drifted through her mind,

The ghosts in this town aren’t that obvious.

When she pulled the sheet away, a cool draft brushed her skin, making the hairs on her arms rise. Underneath was a beautiful, antique mirror.

It was large; its ornate frame tarnished with age, intricate patterns of ivy leaves winding around its edges. Something about it felt nostalgic, like a distant memory just out of reach.

After her discovery, she stood there for a moment, glancing around the attic. The air felt thick, heavy with dust and time. A strange unease crept into her chest, as if the attic itself was waiting for something or someone to emerge. She exhaled sharply, brushing the feeling aside, and decided it was time to leave.

Taking a step back, Ivy admired the mirror on the wall. It made a perfect addition to the space, complementing the other antiques that had come with the house: the weathered oak bookshelf along one wall, the brass candleholders on the mantel, and the old writing desk that bore scratches from a life before hers. The cottage was slowly coming together, piece by piece.

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Later that Morning

She found the coffee shop nestled between a bookstore and small diner, its wooden sign swaying gently in the morning breeze, welcoming her to The Misty Mug. Inside, the scent of fresh espresso and vanilla mingled with the warm chatter of locals.

Claiming a spot near the window, she opened her leather journal and watched as the steam from her latte fogged up the tall glass. She had planned to write about the town: her amber-lit cottage, the way the lake looked at dawn, the way the wind curled through the trees. But her mind kept drifting back to the mirror. She searched for the right words to capture it, but nothing seemed to fit. 

She tapped her pen against the blank page in front of her, grasping at words that drifted by but wouldn’t settle. Then, she wrote down a passing thought:

Something about Ashford Hollow felt old, as if time moved differently here, its past lingering just beneath the surface.

A voice pulled her from her thoughts.

“Mind if I sit?”

Ivy looked up to see a woman standing beside her, a warm, easy smile on her face. Her brassy blonde hair cascaded in shimmering waves; her light green eyes bright with curiosity.

“Of course,” Ivy said, gesturing to the stool beside her.

The woman set her mug down and extended a hand. “Rosalie Warner. I run the garden nursery a few streets over.”

“Ivy Greer,” she replied, shaking her hand. “You’ve got such a beautiful town here.”

Rosalie’s smile widened. “It is, isn’t it? But it’s also… odd. Full of history. Secrets.” She took a sip of her drink, tilting her head slightly. “I’m guessing you’ve noticed.”

Ivy thought about the lake, the way it had felt deeper than it should. The way her house creaked, as if adjusting to her presence.

“I’ve noticed a few things,” she admitted. “Mostly how it feels different here. Like it has layers you can’t quite see unless you know what you’re looking for.”

Rosalie nodded knowingly. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

She leaned forward slightly, her tone light but tinged with a touch of excitement. “If you really want to get to know this place, you should come to the Fall Festival next week. It’s down by the lake. Big bonfire, music, the best cider you’ve ever had. Graham’s been working on his new recipe for months now.”

Ivy smiled at the mention of The Hollow Pint’s owner. “That sounds nice.”

“It’ll be a good way to meet people, too. My friend Bea will be there. She knows just about everyone, and she’d love to meet you.”

Something about the invitation settled Ivy in a way she hadn’t expected. Maybe she needed this: a moment to step into the town’s heart instead of looking in from the outside.

“I’d love to come,” Ivy said, and she meant it.

Rosalie lifted her cup with a warm smile. “Welcome to Ashford Hollow, Ivy. I think you’re going to fit right in.”

Ivy chuckled, tapping her cup against Rosalie’s. As she smiled, a quiet realization took root: Ashford Hollow was starting to feel like a home to her.