Untold Story

Chapter Two: Wishes and Whispers

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Trigger Warning:
Contains references to grief, betrayal, suicide, and murder. Reader discretion is advised.
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Evelyn's POV

The train let out a low hiss as it rolled into the station, the wheels grinding against the rails. I stepped off first, squinting into the sleepy morning light. The platform was small-just two benches, a cracked schedule board, and a rusted sign that read Rosevale. A breeze drifted in, salty and sharp with pine.

Ethan followed close behind, lugging his bag over one shoulder. He took in the empty platform and the quiet town beyond it with a raised brow.

"Ma'am, do you-"

I turned to him, already smirking. "Don't call me ma'am, Ethan. It makes me feel like a school principal."

He chuckled, brushing his hair back with one hand. "Right, sorry. Force of habit. You still have that commanding tone."

"And you still sound like a rookie intern trying to impress the editor."

"I am a rookie intern trying to impress the editor."

I shook my head with a smile just as a man waved at us from beside a beat-up old jeep by the station gate. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a flannel shirt and mud-splattered boots-he looked like he'd just walked out of a farmhand magazine shoot.

"Hey-sorry to bother you," he called as he approached. "Are you the reporters I spoke to on the phone?"

"That's us," I replied. "Thanks for meeting us."

"This is my partner, Ethan. I'm Evelyn."

"Nice to meet you both," he said, shaking our hands with a firm grip. "I'm James. Let's get you settled. My place isn't far."

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The jeep rumbled down a winding road, the kind that wrapped itself between the sea and the hills. On our right, the ocean stretched wide and shimmering, crashing against the shore in lazy waves. On our left, hills rose into wooded slopes, green and golden beneath the late sun.

Rosevale looked like a postcard someone forgot to update. Faded pastel houses with peeling shutters and the scent of old wood smoke, laundry strung between porches like colorful flags, kids running barefoot across dirt paths. Old men sat beneath trees, silent and still, like they'd been carved there.

"This place feels... untouched," Ethan said softly, watching the scenery roll past.

"Like it missed the memo that the rest of the world kept spinning," I added.

James chuckled from the front seat. "Yup. That's Rosevale. Time passes, but not much changes."

Eventually, we turned up a gravel path that led to a stone cottage tucked into the side of a hill. It was overgrown in the best way-flowers in full rebellion around the porch, wind chimes dancing from the eaves. The air smelled like wild mint and fresh earth.

"This is it," James said, hopping out. "Come on, I'll give you the tour."

Inside, the cottage was warm and cozy. Wooden floors, soft rugs, and the faint scent of chamomile tea and something freshly baked. He led us down a narrow hallway and opened a door on the left.