In a village where nothing ever changes, one woman sees everything.
Hearthwick is where bread rises before the sun, shutters stay latched against the wind, and gossip is passed quietly between mugs of Ale. Thara Melcombe, the steadfast keeper of the Mugs Inn, has shouldered the weight of its stillness. She knows every routine, every regular, every creak in the floorboards. But this spring, something is off.
Shrouded in mystery, a stranger lingers too long beneath the old oak. A charm meant to ward off misfortune disappears without a trace. Boots appear by the hearth without mud. Doors are found ajar. And Shadow, her loyal husky, watches the path with ears pinned back.
Thara doesn't chase answers; she collects them. Over boiling stew and scrubbed flagstones, she watches, listens, and records it all in ink-stained journals. Because someone in Hearthwick is lying. And the truth, she suspects, isn't loud. It's quiet. Waiting in the corners. Watching from the cracks.
And if no one else will name it, she will, with a determination that echoes through the quiet streets of Hearthwick.
