LONELY HEARTS
Esmé's life takes a dramatic turn when she becomes entwined with Eiser, a son from a powerful family. Haunted by loss and trapped in a loveless marriage, she battles to connect with a man who conceals his emotions behind a wall of sile...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A WINTER GIFT
“The simple things are also the most extraordinary things, and only the wise can see them.” — Paulo Coelho
The cold wind swept across the garden, ruffling the hem of Esmé’s thick coat as she crouched beside Mary, pulling turnips from the frosted earth.
Her gloved hands worked efficiently, the satisfying crunch of roots breaking free from the soil.
Mary straightened, her face flushed from the chill, and glanced at Esmé. “You’ve gotten quite good at this,” she remarked, brushing dirt from her gloves. “Almost like you’ve done it your whole life.”
Esmé chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Not really. I’m just a quick learner, I suppose.”
“Well, it’s good to have you here. Makes the work go faster,” Mary said warmly, reaching for the basket beside her. “And it’s nice having someone to chat with.”
Esmé smiled faintly, feeling a pang of gratitude for Mary’s companionship.
When the basket was full, Mary stood and dusted off her apron. “That should do it for today,” she said, eyeing the freshly dug row of turnips. Then, as she often did, Mary reached into the basket and selected a few of the best-looking vegetables.
“Here,” she said, holding them out to Esmé. “Take these back with you. They’ll make a nice stew for supper.”
Esmé hesitated, as she always did. “Mary, I can’t keep taking—”
“Nonsense,” Mary interrupted, her tone firm but kind. “You’ve helped me more than enough. Besides, I’ve got plenty. Now go on.”
Esmé accepted the vegetables reluctantly, cradling them in her arms. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with both gratitude and guilt.
Mary waved her off with a smile. “Just promise you’ll eat them this time, not let them sit by the fire until they’re soft.”
Esmé laughed, a rare sound that felt foreign but warm. “I promise.”
As she made her way back to the cottage, the vegetables in her arms felt heavier than they should have.
The snow crunched underfoot, the frost-laden air biting at her cheeks, but for a moment, Esmé felt warmth.
She paused at the edge of the garden, glancing back at Mary, who was already tidying up for the day. “Thank you, Mary,” she called out again, her voice carrying on the cold wind.
Mary looked up and waved, her figure small against the grey sky. “Anytime, dear. Anytime.”
Esmé turned and continued down the path. The day might be cold, but the simple act of kindness lingered, keeping the chill at bay just a little longer.
