A face blurred in the gold-framed mirror that hung crookedly on the plain wall. At first, it was only a shadow… then it began to beckon: slow, deliberate. Its features flickered into focus: eyes wide with warning, or was it an invitation? It was hard to tell. Then, just as suddenly as it had formed, the image shattered into a jumble of pixels, as if the mirror itself had glitched.
Beckoning again, the face reformed, but this time it wasn’t a face at all. The glass rippled, melted, and resolved into a garden scene: a place long lost to time. Spring flowers bloomed in neat beds. Deftly clipped bushes lined a path that curled through a perfectly mown lawn. At its centre, a fountain danced, scattering sunlight like a spray of gems. Somewhere, birds were singing. Somewhere… the garden still lived.
Home.
Farran’s eyes blinked open, adjusting slowly to the dark. A fog of unfinished business and restless longing clung to her mind. The bedside clock glared: 3:04 a.m., its red digits vivid against black. She groaned softly, turned onto her side, and tugged the duvet to her chin, willing sleep to return. It didn’t. The dream returned instead, insistent, twisting, images churning in her head like a storm. Each restless toss only fed them, the pressure building, pounding behind her eyes. It pressed down like a weight, aching through her nerves.
Finally, she gave in. With a frustrated toss, she threw off the duvet and swung her legs over the bed. Her feet sank into the rough carpet; cool air kissed her skin. The hem of her cotton nightdress slipped to her knees. She shivered.
Dragging unwilling limbs across the dark room, she reached for her fleecy dressing gown. She didn’t turn on the light. That would make it real, admitting the dream had followed her into waking.
So she moved through the shadows instead, letting them cling to her like mist. Down the stairs, one careful step at a time. Into the kitchen. Each footfall muffled, each breath a quiet rebellion. She moved in a dull haze, willing the images away, clinging to the stillness before dawn.
Her bare feet tapped the cold linoleum as she crossed to the silver fridge freezer. She opened the door. A harsh stream of white light spilt out, slicing the dark. She blinked, eyes slow to adjust, and reached for the milk.
Setting it on the grey worktop beside the microwave, she reached into the cupboard above. Her hand knocked against a mug. It clinked loudly against another, a bright chime that shattered the silence. Farran jumped, her heart thudding.
She muttered under her breath. What was wrong with her?
The images had been haunting her sleep for weeks, vivid, insistent. But now they came harder, faster, tangled with a sense of urgency she couldn’t explain. A warning written in a language just beyond understanding.
She picked a mug with an owl curling across its side, poured in the milk, and slid it into the microwave. The door clicked shut; she stabbed at the buttons. The machine hummed, low and steady, comfortingly ordinary, though it barely dented the unease coiling in her gut.
As the microwave hummed, Farran leaned against the counter, arms folded tight. Her thoughts drifted back to fragments of the dream.
It had been too serene, unnaturally so. A vast grassy expanse stretched before her like an emerald quilt, its scent sweet and hauntingly familiar. Along the edges, flowers bloomed in vivid bursts, swaying in a spring breeze she could still feel on her skin.
In the centre, a fountain rose from an ornate pond, flinging glittering arcs of water skyward. Droplets twisted and fell in a rhythm that felt endless.
Behind her, though she had never turned, she somehow knew a gravel path led to a towering building. Hedges lined the pathway, shaped into spiralling columns with obsessive care.
But how could she know that? She’d never seen it.
Still, every detail clung to her memory like a scar. She could hear the hedges rustle, feel sunlight warming her face, and smell flowers mingled with damp stone.
These weren’t just dreams.
They were visits.
And that was what unsettled her most. They felt real.
More real, even, than the sleepy Shropshire town she’d known all her life.
Her temples throbbed. The pressure returned, tight, creeping, wrapping around her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images only burned brighter.
The microwave pinged, snapping her back. She opened the door and took out the owl mug, its warmth seeping into her hands as steam curled gently into the air.
Without turning on the light, she padded to the living room. Her favourite chair, an old wing-back upholstered in faded green velvet, waited in its usual corner. Next to it sat a small wooden table, just big enough for a mug, a remote, and the half-read books she never quite finished.
She set the mug down and curled into the seat, pulling her dressing gown close, feet tucked beneath her like a child warding off a storm.
Reaching forward, she clicked on the radio.
The soft strains of ‘Flow My Tears, Fall from Your Springs’ drifted into the room, candlelight woven into sound. She exhaled.
This was what she needed. Dowland’s music always grounded her, a balm for sleepless nights. It stirred something long buried, a sense of safety she couldn’t place. Lately, her thoughts had turned strange, foreign, even. As though they didn’t belong to her.
The music swelled, then faded.
She reached for her mug, grateful for its warmth, as silence folded around her once more.
“That was ‘Flow My Tears, Fall from Your Springs’ by John Dowland,” came the radio voice, smooth, low, intimate against the hush of morning. “We’ll be celebrating the work of this astounding composer until four. I hope you’ll stay with me.”
There was a wry warmth to his tone, as if he knew she was his only listener.
“Next, Gloria Tibi Trinitas, another piece steeped in quiet power. Let it carry you somewhere old and still.”
Music returned, soft and enveloping. Farran leaned back, letting it wrap around her like a familiar blanket. She sipped her drink slowly. She’d heard this show before. That voice, gentle, steady, had a way of curling around words like it knew their weight. What was his name? It hovered just beyond reach, like a tune half-remembered. She could have listened to him for hours, lost in that voice, dreaming of… What, exactly? A garden blooming beyond time? A face she almost knew, always turning away? A love she hadn’t met … or had forgotten? A darkness just out of reach? She shook her head. Why did her mind keep circling back to these half-formed visions?
Gripping the anchor of the announcer’s voice, she nudged the thoughts aside and took another slow sip of milk. And then, as if summoned by the music, drowsiness returned, gentler this time. She let it take her.
She woke with a jolt, briefly disoriented. The radio was still on, but the music had gone, replaced by a clipped, unfamiliar voice.
6:29. The square wall clock confirmed it.
“…Easter Monday,” the announcer said, voice brisk. “Time for the morning news.”
Farran sat still, letting the date settle strangely in her mind. Then she stretched, limbs stiff but less sore than usual. Rising, she padded into the kitchen. The faint scent of milk and sleep lingered. Pale daylight pressed against the closed blinds. She drew them open, blinking as the brightness spilt across the walls.
Outside, her eyes drifted over the enclosed backyard, her garden, though it barely earned the name. A tall brick wall enclosed it, stealing the warmth of the sun. The wooden gate, high and solid, stood guard like a sentinel.
No grass grew beneath her window, only cold, grey slabs of concrete. A lone plant pot clung to the edge, its rosemary tuft the sole spark of life. In the far corner, a small brick shed leaned against the wall. Once an outdoor toilet, now it sheltered dusty crates, forgotten relics hiding silent secrets.
The back door, streaked brown, held two frosted glass panes split by a slender wooden beam carved into twin arches. Sunlight struggled past the heavy wall, casting shadows that felt like more than just stone; barriers both seen and unseen. Her mind flickered to the garden from her dreams, wild, vast, bursting with colour, and she blinked, letting the vision slip away with a slow, wistful sigh.
Farran moved through the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She filled the silver kettle from the matching taps, set it on its black base, and switched it on. Crossing the room, she opened a cupboard and took down a white ceramic bowl. From below the counter, she scooped muesli into it, then fetched milk from the fridge and poured a splash over the cereal.
The kettle bubbled loudly, then clicked off. A mug sat ready with a teabag; she poured in the boiling water, added a splash of milk, and stirred absent-mindedly. Fishing out the teabag, she flicked it into the food caddy by the sink.
Back in the living room, the radio played a soft selection of tunes. She set down her mug and sank into her chair, eyes drifting around the room. Heavy dark green curtains hung over the bay windows, blocking much of the morning light and tinting the room with a muted emerald glow.
To the left of the window, a television hung above a small shelf holding a DVD player, the radio, and a modest collection of DVDs. Farran’s laptop usually rested there too, but today it was tucked beneath the table.
On the adjacent wall, a clock ticked steadily beneath a portrait of a stern Elizabethan man. His hard gaze seemed to follow her wherever she went. Farran often wondered why she kept the painting, yet it gave her a strange comfort. She never thought to move it, and it sparked curiosity among guests, though she had little to say about it.
Rising, she pulled back the curtains, flooding the room with daylight. Outside, paving slabs led from the front door to the tarmac, a solitary pot of rue standing amid a barren concrete stretch. Across the way, rows of Edwardian houses stood tightly joined, stretching as far as she could see. Farran had lived here as long as she could remember, watching neighbours come and go. Leaving had never crossed her mind.
Back at her seat, she began breakfast, forcing herself not to dwell on the restless night. Slowly, tension eased, muscles unwinding. Finally, she relaxed.
Her phone flashed softly, chiming a simple tune. Elwyna’s name lit the screen. A smile spread across Farran’s face. Best friends forever, never tired of each other’s company. She eagerly accepted the call.
“Hi, Farr, how are you?” Elwyna’s voice was bright and warm. “I haven’t heard from you all Easter. Just wanted to check you’re okay.” The excitement made Farran chuckle softly.
“Hi, Elv, I’m good, ta,” Farran replied, matching her cheer. “Quiet time before work. You?”
A pang of guilt pricked her; she hadn’t been truthful, but she didn’t want to worry Elwyna. There was nothing to fret over.
“Daryll and I went to Paris for our anniversary,” Elwyna exclaimed. “So romantic! Can you believe we’ve been married 30 years and he still surprises me?”
“Oh wow, Elv. That’s lovely,” Farran said. “We must meet for a cuppa so you can tell me all about it.”
“What are you doing today?” Elwyna asked. “Bank holiday, you have the day off, right?”
“I’m going in,” Farran said carefully. “It’ll be quiet. There’s a lot to do with the new exhibition starting soon.” Several items still needed cataloguing for the Stevens family, a Cotswold line with ties to Shrewsbury.
Secretly, Farran relished the museum’s stillness when it was empty. Being surrounded by the past gave her a satisfaction that nowhere else could.
“Farr, you work too hard,” Elwyna’s voice held playful disappointment. “How about tonight? That Italian restaurant in the square always serves a decent meal. Bet you haven’t eaten properly!” Mischief laced her tone.
“Okay, that sounds great,” Farran laughed, giving in. “I finish around four, meet you there just after?”
“Great!” Elwyna said. “Table booked for 4:30.”
“Perfect. See you later.”
“See you,” Elwyna said.
Farran smiled as the call ended. She took her breakfast things and the mug she’d used overnight to the kitchen, quickly washing up and wiping surfaces. Then she headed upstairs to get ready.
Farran stepped into bright sunshine, closing the blue wooden door behind her and turning the key with a satisfying click. She slipped the key into her bag and walked down the short path of slabs to the pavement. Her eyes lingered on the grey concrete garden. She decided to get a few pots and flowers to brighten the space, wondering why she hadn’t before.
The morning sun warmed her as she walked, glad for light trousers and a flowing top. Her jacket hung over one arm, and deck shoes padded softly. A cool breeze tousled her hair.
She loved mornings like this, walking to work, clearing the clutter swirling in her mind.
Minutes later, Farran left the quiet street behind, heading down the main road toward the town centre. Ahead, the red sandstone walls of the Abbey loomed, a magnificent sight in its heyday.
Built on the site of a wooden chapel in 1083 by Roger de Montgomery, the original structure once stretched across the road. The pulpit still stood in a small garden opposite, a silent witness to the past. Now, cars rumbled by, oblivious. It saddened Farran how people discarded their past, uninterested in stories that shaped them.
She glanced up as she passed the building. Not today, but soon she would stop to take in its full majesty. The clock tower bell chimed the hour: seven, eight, nine, ten. She’d hoped to be at work by now, but recalled she needed the library first. Quickening her pace, she pressed on.
Her route took her beneath the Victorian railway bridge, past the old grammar school, and over English Bridge spanning the rushing Severn. She passed shops and a car park before beginning the steep climb up Wyle Cop, a street lined with shops and pubs curving past the Lion Hotel, then branching onto Dogpole.
At the top stood St Mary’s Church, brickwork darkened by years of petrol fumes. Turning the corner, she reached Castle Street, walking past larger shops toward the library, once Shrewsbury School, where Charles Darwin had studied.
She reached the library steps, slightly breathless but pressing on. Climbing stone steps, she followed the path past Darwin’s statue seated thoughtfully in his chair. The path curved beneath a stone archway to the building’s rear. There, she unlocked the staff door and stepped into a long corridor. A beeping alarm sounded, a warning of a possible intruder. Farran hurried to the control panel and entered the code. Silence returned.
Down the corridor, Farran reached the storeroom. She fumbled in her bag for the lanyard holding her badge and black fob. Pressing the fob to a small black panel, a green light flickered and a beep confirmed access. She turned the handle and pushed open the door, stepping inside as lights flickered on.
Rows of shelves stretched before her, packed with books and boxes holding centuries of history. A musty scent hung, an aroma of days past and knowledge not to be forgotten. Farran went straight to the Stephens family archive shelf and gathered a selection of books, sliding them into her bag alongside a small box.
Satisfied, she left the storeroom and stepped back into the street, ready to walk the short distance to the museum.
Farran walked down the pedestrianised Pride Hill, where a few people leisurely strolled. She enjoyed these quieter moments, free from weaving through crowds. Reaching the corner at the hill’s base, she followed the pavement curving into High Street.
More people gathered here, drawn by charity stalls in the town square. Farran paused opposite a weather-worn statue, overlooking the road and facing a former fire station, now a bank. After checking traffic, she crossed and headed toward the old stone market hall.
The market hall, a beautiful two-storey structure with arches opening onto the ground floor, echoed softly under her footsteps as she passed through the front arch and emerged through the rear. Bathed in sunlight ahead stood the majestic music hall, now the town’s museum.
The grand white building rose in three tiers. On the ground floor, original wooden doors were replaced by automatic glass ones. Flanking them were large windows, an estate agent’s office on the left and the tourist information centre on the right. Above, windows recessed behind stately pillars, topped by a subtly decorated triangular roof.
Farran stepped inside, feeling her load heavier than at the start. She moved through the echoing entrance hall toward the office door. Nearby, the café buzzed softly with muffled chatter and clinking cups. She made a mental note to return later for a drink, and perhaps some cake, after unloading.
Turning left, she entered a red-carpeted area with stairs leading up. At the top, a white door on her right beckoned. She pushed it open, relieved to reach her destination, and sighed as she approached a clear desk to set down her load.
Nearby, a cluttered desk held a phone. She checked it, shaking stiffness from her arms, no messages. Good. Now, to start sorting or get that cuppa and cake? The latter won, and she headed back to the café with a small smile.
Returning to the office with goodies in hand, Farran headed straight to the desk where she’d placed the library materials. Carefully, she began organising the documents while sipping her hot drink. Gradually, she lost herself in the Stephens family history; the drama and turmoil for one family was heartbreaking.
She’d found some information online before, but now hoped to uncover much more. Why she felt such a deep connection to people long gone, she didn’t know, but the feeling was real and grew stronger with each new detail.
Excitedly, Farran pieced the jigsaw together, watching stories unfold before her eyes. The family stretched back centuries, growing into an influential dynasty, until tragedy struck and changed everything.
So engrossed, time slipped away unnoticed. When her mobile phone rang suddenly, she jumped, as if flung from the past into the present. For a moment, disoriented, she reached for the phone on the desk and “Hey Farr,” came a familiar voice, teasingly giggling. “Thought I’d give you an alarm call.”
“Oh! Hi, Elv,” Farran said, still feeling pulled back to the present.
“Are you alright?” Concern crept into Elwyna’s voice. “You sound a little out of it.”
“I’m fine, really,” Farran replied, shaking her head. “Caught up in the research, lost all sense of time.” She glanced at the clock, nearly four o’clock. Where had the hours gone? She’d been working solidly, even forgetting to eat. Her stomach growled.
“That’s why I rang,” Elwyna said softly. “You’d better get ready for the restaurant. Bet you haven’t eaten properly.”
“I had a little,” Farran admitted, thinking of the cake earlier.
“A cake’s not enough,” Elwyna laughed softly.
“You know me too well,” Farran chuckled. “Give me ten minutes, I’ll be ready.”
“Okay,” Elwyna replied. “See you soon.”
Farran glanced at the piles of information on the desk. She’d done well so far, but the pull of history kept her lingering longer than planned.
Twenty minutes later, Farran stepped into the warm buzz of the busy Italian restaurant, the cool spring air still brushing her face. She spotted Elwyna near the back and gave a small wave. Elwyna returned a bright smile, her blue eyes sparkling. Farran eased off her bag and jacket, draping them over the empty chair before settling opposite her friend.
“Hi. How are you?” Farran bubbled, her smile brightening. “You look fabulous.”
Elwyna’s elf-like face lit up, framed by short chestnut hair. “I’m good. How are you?” Her eyes narrowed playfully, as if seeing past Farran’s cheer.
“I’m good,” Farran replied, picking up the menu.
Elwyna studied her for a moment. “Mmm… you look tired.” She raised a dark eyebrow, tone gentle but probing. Farran felt vulnerability flicker. Elwyna always knew when something was wrong.
Farran forced a light laugh. “Of course. Just one of those dreams last night. I fell asleep in the chair.” She tucked a loose strand behind her ear, avoiding admitting it was the third or fourth restless night recently. “Plus, Darnell’s still a pain. Don’t understand his problem.” She shuddered slightly at the name.
“You should tell him where to get off,” Elwyna said, leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Who does he think he is?”
Farran sighed, fiddling with the neatly folded napkin, pushing back irritation. “Only a few more weeks. Then he goes back where he came from.”
Elwyna smiled knowingly and shifted the subject. “Enough work talk. Tell me about your amazing husband and your weekend away.”
“Okay, I’ll save that for later,” Elwyna grinned. “We’ll catch up after we order. So, what do you want?”
Farran hesitated, then smiled. “A margarita and a small glass of wine.”
Elwyna laughed softly. “Predictable.”
They caught the waiter’s eye, placed orders, then slipped into easy conversation.
“It sounds fantastic,” Farran said as Elwyna recounted her weekend. “You’re lucky to have Daryll.”
Elwyna’s smile softened. “You’ll meet someone soon,” she said warmly.
Farran looked down, a shadow crossing her smile. “I don’t think so. I’m nearly fifty. Who’d want me?”
“Well, funny you say that,” Elwyna teased. Farran groaned inwardly. “I met someone I think you’d like.”
Farran’s stomach tightened. This wasn’t Elwyna’s first matchmaking attempt, and none ended well.
“I don’t know, Elv,” she hesitated. “It’s never worked before…”
“Just come meet him,” Elwyna pressed gently, squeezing Farran’s hand. “He’s coming for drinks Thursday at seven-thirty. It’ll be fun.” She looked pleadingly, and Farran laughed.
“Okay, I’ll come for drinks. But no promises I’ll stay!”
“At least you’re coming,” Elwyna smiled. “Daryll said you wouldn’t.”
“Don’t gloat yet, I might change my mind,” Farran warned, raising an eyebrow. “What’s his name?”
“Tom. Tom Gester.”
A sharp prickle raced across Farran’s skin. She was sure she’d heard the name, but where? She pushed the thought aside as they chatted and laughed.
Finishing their meal, Elwyna winked. “See you Thursday.”
Farran smiled, shaking her head. “Yes.”
They hugged tightly, savouring friendship’s comfort, before going their separate ways into the night.
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