The Workshop and the Whisper

The next morning arrived shrouded in soft mist. A fine veil of fog wrapped around Windmere like an old shawl, blurring rooftops and blending trees with sky. The harbor, visible just beyond the hill, was quiet, the tide slowly exhaling. Everything seemed hushed, as if the town itself was holding its breath.

Elena pulled her cardigan tighter and stepped barefoot onto the front porch, a steaming mug of coffee warming her hands. Her breath curled visibly in the crisp morning air. Somewhere in the distance, gulls called, and a wind chime sang a delicate tune.

It had only been three days since she’d returned, and already the frantic pace of New York life seemed like a dream. Here, everything slowed. Here, silence had weight. And oddly enough, it was beginning to comfort her.

Across the garden, past the ivy-covered fence, she heard the soft, rhythmic thunk of a hammer. Noah’s workshop. She glanced over, watching his shadow move behind the curtainless window—measured, deliberate, focused.

Part of her told her to go back inside. To stay away. That getting involved—especially this early—wasn’t part of the plan.

But another part of her, the one that had started to stir again since stepping back into Windmere, whispered otherwise.

She took a breath, set her coffee down, and crossed the garden.

The scent of cut wood grew stronger as she neared. She paused at the workshop’s open door, peeking inside.

“Noah?”

He looked up, a pencil tucked behind his ear, sawdust clinging to his flannel. His face softened at the sight of her.

“Elena,” he said with a nod. “Didn’t expect company.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” he said, gesturing her in. “Just sanding down some pine for a bench order.”

The workshop was a blend of rough lumber and warm charm. Tools hung neatly along the wall. An old radio played soft instrumental jazz in the background. Wood shavings curled on the floor like tiny scrolls, and the air smelled like cedar and varnish.

She stepped inside cautiously, brushing a hand over the smooth surface of a nearly finished table. “You made all this?”

He nodded. “Some commissions. Some for the shop in town. I do repairs, too.”

“You’re talented,” she said sincerely. “This place… it’s peaceful.”

“I like working with my hands,” he replied, running a calloused palm over the wood. “There’s clarity in shaping something solid. The world doesn’t feel so chaotic when I’m in here.”

There was a brief pause.

“I brought you firewood,” he added. “Should’ve done it yesterday.”

“You really didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

Just then, a light creak came from the side door, followed by a small giggle. A girl, no older than eight, stepped inside. Her sandy curls tumbled over her shoulders, and her wide blue-gray eyes lit up when she saw Elena.

Noah turned, surprised. “Ivy. Thought you were still painting.”

“I finished the wings,” she said, holding up a small wooden bird painted in soft teal and gold. “See?”

Elena knelt slightly. “Wow. That’s beautiful. Did you really paint that?”

Ivy beamed and nodded. “Dad carved it. I painted.”

“Well, you’re both artists, clearly.”

The girl tucked herself under Noah’s arm, shy but smiling.

“This is my daughter,” he said. “Ivy, this is Elena. She’s staying next door.”

“Hi,” Ivy said, barely above a whisper.

“Hi, Ivy,” Elena replied warmly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

They spent a few minutes talking, Ivy eventually growing more comfortable and showing off a few more of her painted birds. Each one had its own personality, and Elena was genuinely charmed by her creativity.

“I used to come here with Grandma Nora,” she said softly, watching Ivy line them up on a shelf. “She bought me my first journal in Windmere. I think she always hoped I’d come back.”

Noah looked at her carefully. “She talked about you. Said you had fire in you. Even when you didn’t think so.”

Elena smiled faintly. “She said that?”

He nodded. “Said the world tried to put it out, but you’d find your spark again.”

Those words hit her in a place she hadn’t realized was still tender.

“I should probably get going,” she said quietly, blinking fast. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not,” Noah said, walking her to the door. “Wait—hold on.”

He disappeared to the back and returned with a bundle of split logs stacked in a canvas carrier.

“Let me at least carry these over,” he said.

Back at her cottage, he set the wood by the fireplace and looked around the room—the mismatched furniture, the fading pictures on the wall, the soft lavender scent still clinging to the air.

“It still feels like her,” Elena said quietly.

“I know,” Noah replied. “She was good to us.”

As he turned to leave, she touched his arm. “Thank you, Noah. Really.”

His eyes held hers, steady and kind. “Anytime.”

After he left, Elena lit a fire and curled up on the couch, pulling out her journal. She flipped to a new page.

“Ivy paints wings. Noah builds from pieces. And I… I think I’m still learning how to rebuild, too.”

She paused.

“He’s kind. Not in the way people perform kindness, but in the way trees offer shade—without needing thanks. Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing.”

Outside, the fog began to lift.

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