SEABROOK; Harry Styles

5

FIVE

The afternoon light was golden as Mara led the small group down the narrow trail that cut through the woods, a path hidden from the town's main roads. Harry, walking at the back, took in the surroundings—dense trees, the hum of distant birds, the quiet murmur of the wind rustling through the leaves. It was a stark contrast to the noise of the city, but today, Harry felt less aware of that difference. The quiet felt more like a natural state than anything strange.

Mara, with her calm and purposeful stride, didn't rush as she moved ahead, her voice carrying effortlessly over the sounds of the forest as she spoke.

"This trail was originally created by the first settlers of Seabrook," Mara said, her tone steady but not rehearsed. "It was their main route into town after they arrived by ship. The town itself wasn't much back then—just a few wooden houses and this narrow path connecting them to the land."

The small group followed her, nodding and listening intently. Harry noticed how the other participants leaned in when she spoke, as if the legends she shared had a weight to them. Yet, there was something in her delivery—no flourish, no unnecessary emphasis—that made it feel more real, less like a performance.

"This path was used for more than just travel," Mara continued, stepping over a fallen log. "It was also the way they'd carry the goods into town. Horses and carts would follow this trail, moving supplies to the market and back. But some say you can still hear the faint clip-clop of hooves if you walk it at night."

The group murmured, intrigued by the thought, but Harry kept his attention on Mara, watching how easily she moved through the forest. She wasn't looking for recognition; her focus was entirely on the path ahead, on the history she was sharing, and the way it fit into the land around them. There was no pretense in the way she spoke, and that made the stories feel less like folklore and more like something true, something that belonged to the earth beneath their feet.

"Do you ever get people who try to find the horses?" one of the tourists asked, an older man with a camera hanging from his neck.

Mara glanced over her shoulder at him, her expression soft but neutral. "Some," she said simply. "Mostly tourists who want a thrill. But I've never heard anything myself."

The man nodded, and the group continued walking in silence for a moment before Mara spoke again, her voice cutting through the quiet like a gentle breeze.

"Back here, on the left, you'll see the remnants of what's known as the Old Stone Circle. It's not much now, just a ring of rocks, but the town's founders believed it was a site for marking important events—marriages, births, deaths. Some even believed the stones had power, that the earth had chosen them to stand as protectors of the land."

Harry found his gaze drawn to the small cluster of rocks she was pointing toward. They didn't seem remarkable at first glance, but there was something about the way Mara described them that made him take a second look. They were ancient, weathered by time, yet they stood stubbornly, as if they had been placed with intention.

"The legend says that if you sit within the circle and listen carefully, you can hear the voices of those who once stood there," Mara added. "It's said to be a place where the past and present meet."

Harry wasn't sure if he believed in the stories, but there was a certain pull to the way Mara spoke. Her indifference to whether anyone took the legends seriously only seemed to add to their authenticity, like she was telling them not for their shock value but because they were part of Seabrook's fabric.

As they continued walking, Harry found himself unconsciously paying more attention to Mara. Not because she was trying to impress anyone, but because her focus seemed so unwavering, so steady. She wasn't performing for the group—she was simply sharing a part of her town, of its past, and there was something striking in that.

They moved deeper into the woods, the path narrowing and winding through the trees. The quiet was almost palpable now, broken only by Mara's steady voice and the occasional sound of a footstep or a bird call.

"Seabrook's history isn't just built on the physical, you see," Mara continued, her voice not louder, just firm enough to be heard over the occasional crackle of leaves beneath their feet. "It's in the land, in the air. People come for the stories, but most leave with a feeling that something stays behind. This town doesn't forget. It holds onto things—moments, people—like it's a living memory."

As they neared the end of the trail, Harry felt an odd sense of connection to the place, as though the forest had shared something with him, even if it wasn't anything tangible. It wasn't a mystical experience or a revelation, but rather a quiet understanding of why people like Mara valued this town. It was the kind of place where stories didn't need to be grand to be significant. It was enough that they existed, passed from one person to the next, a quiet part of the town's pulse.

They reached the end of the trail, and Mara turned to face the group, her gaze flicking over each of them with a calm assessment.

"Well, that's the tour," she said, her voice still even, but now there was a small smile playing at the edges of her lips. "I hope you all enjoyed it. Seabrook might not have much excitement, but it has its share of stories. And if you're lucky enough, you'll feel them."

The group thanked her, some of them lingering to ask more questions. Harry stood back, feeling like there was something more he could have asked, but also understanding that Mara wasn't one to indulge in anything beyond the stories. She had given them what they came for, without excess, without flair. It was the kind of simplicity that made you think long after you'd left.