The Two's Day

Chapter-1 The Arrival

Late 1800, Dedham village:

The early nightfall had replaced the sweltering, irradiant heat of the day with a palpable blackness. As The stagecoach continued moving, the sound of horse' hooves resounded in the dimly lit passageways as the cobbled streets slowly began to empty.

Baekhyun could see the old home emerging from the earth like a seed that had been there all along, waiting to bloom among the hills. The houses were golden stone in golden light and were as splendid as a new spring flower in all weathers.

His gaze fell onto the women who had emerged from their homes to start the fire to lit their houses. He thought about his mother upon seeing the women, who would presumably be shining light at his home at this moment too. He briefly lost his awareness that it was unethical for any decent man to gape at women.

The night crept up when he was not watching. First the sun ducked down behind the buildings and under the fence, refracting golden hour through the alleys and illuminating that tree, that branch, the left side of his face…then it was gone with one last tiny blaze of warmth and light on the horizon .

he strained to see.

The night's familiar blue breeze has a scent like salt, concrete, and green foxtails. She is his friend, but he looks at her from the sides of his eyes. She softens the lines in his skin and sends a chill up his spine. She gives him a reprieve from his daily burdens and ties him to one place.

And just like this….He had the innate ability to infuse any inanimate object or stunning vision with fresh form by weaving it into the weave of his artistic creation.

Art of writing.

Why art? May ask…..To Baekhyun, In his craft he fashioned a thing that time cannot wear down, a product no person may consume; yet his craft elevates the soul by consuming the poison of emotional indifference and medicating with love.

A writer's words are part of our societal immune system and that makes Baekhyun proud to call himself a writer.

And now this art has brought him here, so far from his home, in this small village. Just a few moments away to reach his destination.

*•'°-*•'°-*•'°

Bree stood at the window of her bedroom from where a flickering light emerged. An intuitive woman, she was, she knew that they had arrived.

She was dressed in a white nightdress with long sleeves that were properly cuffed. Around her head was a bonnet, the brims of which were tied at her throat with the same material.

Reaching for the bedside table, she stopped and withdrew her hand. The painting of her father that she drew herself, had been turned out to face the room. She touched it every night before she went to sleep. It was always facing towards her, towards the bed, not away from it.

She shifted the painting's position and traced it with her finger, and before she knew it, Her father's footsteps resonated throughout the quiet home.

"Father… "

"Ahh.. Here, Mr. Byun, please allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Abrielle Bamford. "

When she turned in the direction in which her father had indicated, A young man with a long coat hanging on his left arm and a gray beret perched atop his head was visible to her. His suspenders were also still bobbing haphazardly from his broad shoulders.

Notwithstanding that his long brown hair covered his eyes, his pale cheeks and parched lips—both attributes of his arduous journey—were still plain to see. Through his shirt, his body's distinct features were still discernible. He had soft features in contrast to his physical traits.

He swept her a curtsey. The same gesture was reciprocated with obeisance from her.

"I am Byun Baekhyun, the author her majesty requested. "

She recognised him right away since it was widely known across the region that the queen had requested a particular author to write about this place's heritage.

"We intend to have Mr. Byun stay with us for a time. "said Mr. Bamford.

"Us? Do you intend to stay a while? " With optimism, ask Bree.

"No my dear, her majesty asked for my presence in the court. "said Mr. Bamford repentantly, fondling her head.

When Bree was unable to suppress the expression of melancholy on her face, her father added "However, Mr. Byun intends to stay for a fortnight. " A smile was shared between the two men.

She also tried to smile, but it did not land on her lips in a way that would have impressed the men in the chamber.

______

She entered her room and settled into the mattress once both men were ensconced in their own quarters.

This night was a futile tussle of conflicting thoughts. She could not sleep, not yet. There was a tension in her muscles that made her more like a mannequin on this soft mattress than a woman of flesh and bone. She wanted so much to melt onto the soft feather, wrapped in eider-down, and drift into the world of dreams. Yet her brain was a violent whirl of idiocy, trying to organize the turmoil in her life.

How could her father leave her in the presence of another man in the house?

Her father's departure, a stranger in her home, to be alone with her. Her thoughts had touched every one of her misgivings and had plunged her into upheaval. She tried to stop but…..

Of course the task is pointless, life is far too unpredictable for a human brain to comprehend billions of variables that come together to form just one day for one person. Though her conscious brain knows all this, the subconscious remains stubborn in its attempts to protect her, to ensure her survival by her own thoughts.

Oh! these thoughts. She feels as though she has gone through a lifetime of thoughts alone this evening. Sleepless nights must be a blessing for an aspiring writer.

Writer.

And just like that her mind raced with thoughts of the writer who would soon be sharing her home.

Not that she consider herself much of a reader, but His stories had entranced her, his words weaving a world so vivid she could almost feel the cool breeze on her face and hear the rustling of leaves in the trees.

But now, as she contemplated the prospect of living under the same roof as him, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of anxiety.

Despite her reservations, however, she could not help but feel a flutter of excitement in her chest. The idea of sharing her home with someone as fascinating as him was both daunting and thrilling.

She sighed and buried her face in her pillow, the gentle rustling of her skirts a lullaby as she drifted off to sleep, her mind filled with thoughts of the mysterious writer.