Whispers of Heather Hollow

The vibe in Heather Hollow was about as sleepy as the aroma of the flowers Wesley dealt with every day. As the town's only florist, Wesley had all the time in the world to people-watch, even if the population seemed more into Netflix than interacting with actual people. Wes knew everyone's comings and goings, though, and things got interesting when Mrs. Carmichael didn't come by for her weekly daisies. Not that Wes was a snoop, but when your job is to rearrange things all day, you notice rearrangements in your daily roster. "Heard from Mrs. Carmichael?" Wes asked Jenna as they stood in line at Java Junction. Jenna, the town's librarian and his unofficial partner in solving daily enigmas, raised an eyebrow, sipping on her chamomile tea. "Nope, and that's odd 'cause she was supposed to return that antiquated gardening book today," Jenna replied with a shrug. It wasn't like him dwelling on a missed delivery, but something about Mrs. Carmichael's absence nagged at him. A crisis or a crime, both liked to hide in plain sight. Later that week, Wes finally gave in to his growing curiosity. With Jenna in tow, they made their way to Mrs. Carmichael's place, past the curtain of leaves blending earthy colors with mystery. The house stood oddly quiet. No wind chimes jangled, and the windows bore the look of eyes tight shut. "Mrs. Carmichael? It's Wes—from the flower shop," he called out, hesitantly tapping on the old oak door. No answer, just the faint echo of falling acorns. "Maybe she went out of town?" Jenna suggested, already peeking through a window, pushing curiosity over the threshold. But all that peek yielded was an untouched cup of tea on the kitchen table and letters scattered with yesterday's news, speaking more of silence than travel plans. Then, out of the blue, a voice called from behind, soft as the whispered wind. "You're looking for what can't be found, Wesley." There stood old Mr. Brook, shuffling closer, grasping an umbrella like a wand. "She wouldn't just; well, she's *here* or there, perhaps nearer than far," Mr. Brook continued cryptically as if he were endorsing a thriller Wes was too self-aware to shelve. With little more than Mr. Brook's Gothic poetry hint, Wes dug deeper, his own roots tangled in a web of what-ifs. Jenna, ever the sleuth, found an old note tucked away in a library book returned by Mrs. Carmichael – "Heathergate awaits the night." That's how they discovered the evening meetings beneath Heather Hollow—an attempt by the residents to rediscover what lay buried in deeds and time. Jenna and Wes joined these shadowy rendezvous on the whisper stage of twilight. Here, confessions were made amongst the whispered wind, secrets in the form of shared tales that seemed too odd to be real. "The Carmichaels have a secret spot out there," Jenna suggested one night amid a group excited to solve the oddity treasuring the old woods. They zeroed in on Heathergate, a clearing veiled in mist. What they uncovered together that night was far from sinister. Instead, Mrs. Carmichael emerged from the woods, revealing an underground greenhouse preserved by family for ages, her hidden retreat to nurture what the world had forgotten. Wes found an admirer in the whisper shadow of the moon—it was all quite poetic until you remembered a clumsy step could land you flat in the compost heap. The catharsis of revelation rinsed the air crisp, leaving Heather Hollow lighter, the flowers smiled wider that spring. Wes and Jenna, fueled by camaraderie and late-night coffees, laid bare a mystery both tedious and heartfelt. Yet Heather Hollow chugged on, the rhythm a familiar sonnet with secrets artfully tucked into every leaf, branching out yet hidden away. By summer’s daylight, Mrs. Carmichael was as dependable as her daisies once more, and Wes? He hadn't gained a detective's hat, but surely a new way of seeing—now watching the world with hopeful, conspiratorial eyes.