Ethan Grayson was no stranger to silence. He’d sought it out deliberately, trading the deafening noise of the city for the quiet rhythm of waves brushing against the rocky shore of his new home. It was here, in this sleepy coastal town, he hoped to find peace—or at least enough inspiration to finish his next book. But the silence wasn’t as empty as he’d expected.
It started with whispers.
At first, they were faint—like a breeze slipping through the cracked window in his study. Ethan dismissed them as the house settling or the ever-present groan of the sea. But as the nights grew colder, the whispers became clearer.
They came from the garden.
Ethan leaned against the wooden frame of his desk, sipping whiskey from a tumbler. The dim light of his study lamp cast long shadows across the room, stretching toward the window that overlooked his overgrown backyard. It was an uninspired sort of night—his latest manuscript had stalled on a particularly stubborn chapter, and the whiskey wasn’t working its usual magic.
He glanced at the window again, half-expecting to see nothing but the swaying branches of the oak tree. Instead, his eyes caught movement—a flicker of light near the fence.
Curiosity nudged him to his feet.
Outside, the air was crisp, and the moon hung low, spilling silver light over the garden. Ethan followed the glow, each step crunching against the frost-kissed grass. When he reached the fence, the source of the light became clear—a lantern, held by a figure on the other side.
She was stunning, her auburn hair catching the moonlight in waves. Her golden-brown eyes sparkled with mischief as she regarded him, the faintest smirk playing on her lips.
“Are you going to keep staring,” she asked, her voice warm, teasing, “or are you going to say hello?”
Ethan’s lips curved into a smile of his own. “Hello,” he replied, leaning against the fence. “Ethan Grayson. And you are?”
“Lily Hayes,” she said, her tone as casual as if they were old friends. “Your neighbor. Though I don’t recall seeing you at any of the town gatherings.”
“I’m not much for gatherings,” Ethan admitted.
“Then what are you for?”
The question lingered between them, sharp and playful, and for a moment, Ethan forgot the cold biting at his skin.
Later, back inside, Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that Lily was more than she seemed. He thought of her boldness, the way she’d stood in the moonlight like she belonged there.
The whispers returned that night, louder and more distinct than ever.
“Ethan,” they said, a woman’s voice, soft and insistent. “The garden… beneath the oak.”
Sleep eluded him as he debated whether to investigate. By dawn, curiosity won. Armed with a shovel and a sense of growing unease, he made his way to the oak tree.
Beneath the gnarled roots, he found it—a leather-bound book, its cover worn with age. As he brushed away the dirt, the whispers grew deafening, filling his ears, his mind.
And then, silence.
Lily was waiting for him at the fence that evening, her lantern swinging at her side.
“Find anything interesting?” she asked, her smile coy.
Ethan hesitated. “How did you know?”
“I’ve lived here a long time,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze locked on his, and the playful spark in her eyes burned brighter. “The real question is, what are you going to do about it?”
The air between them crackled with tension, and Ethan felt an undeniable pull toward her. The whispers may have led him to the book, but Lily? Lily was a mystery he couldn’t ignore.