Elmwatch was the kind of village where nothing much happened—and most folks liked it that way.
Tucked between two green hills and nestled close to the bend of a bright river, it was a place of early mornings, quiet afternoons, and still, starlit nights. The houses were simple—whitewashed walls, wooden shutters, sloped roofs of thatch or red tile. Chickens scratched the dirt without fences to hold them, and every home had a small garden out back with onions, beans, or carrots pushing through the soil.
In Elmwatch, the days followed a rhythm as steady as the seasons.
On this morning, the sky was soft and gold, the air smelling faintly of dew and wild mint. A light mist still clung to the grass and the tops of the trees, but the sun was already warming the rooftops. Birds called to one another from the hedgerows, and a pair of rabbits darted across the road, stopping briefly before vanishing into the fields.
