Yorkshire, England – Summer, 1923
Mary sat alone by her bedroom window, watching the fog roll in across the hills. Morning light touched the edge of the sky, but her thoughts were still trapped in the night.
"I had that dream again," she whispered to herself, pressing a hand to her chest. Her fingers trembled slightly.
It wasn't like other dreams. I could feel it. Feel?
This one was warm, soft, and terrifying all at once. She had been dancing in a field of tall grass, the sun golden on her skin, and beside her, laughing, twirling, holding her hand—was a girl. A stranger, but somehow not. Her face was blurred by the dream, but the feeling remained. The feeling of peace. Of joy. Of being seen.
And then, she had kissed her. Softly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Mary's eyes snapped shut at the memory, and a wave of guilt crashed over her.
She shook her head hard, as if trying to toss the dream out of her mind. "No. Stop it."
It wasn't right. It couldn't be.
She was the daughter of the city's mayor. People expected her to be graceful, quiet, and obedient. Her path was already decided.
"I'm to be married soon," she muttered bitterly, staring at her pale reflection in the glass. "To a man I've met only once. That's the life I'm supposed to live."
She remembered his name, though barely his face—Thomas Ashton, a war hero's son with a kind smile and nothing in common with her.
That dream wasn't her future. It couldn't be.
She straightened her back, smoothed her nightgown, and forced her thoughts away from the girl in the field. Away from the smile, the touch, the feeling that still lingered like a secret under her skin.
"I just need to be a good daughter," she said firmly. "No more foolish dreams."
But her heart whispered something else.
Something that wouldn't go away so easily.
"How can a foolish dream have such an impact on me? It was not even something normal. A girl can't dream of another one. Girl's like me are meant to be with powerful men and not another girl or lady. I might be sick or something. The thoughts are unnecessary and stupid."
She took a deep breath looking at the mirror.
"I need to get this thought out of my mind or better bury inside myself for forever."
Later that day-
The sky was a gentle blue, brushed with soft clouds like strokes from an artist's hand. The air smelled faintly of lemon biscuits and garden roses. A breeze teased the white curtains as Mary sat at her room her hands resting quietly in her lap.
Behind her, her mother worked swiftly.
"Sit straight, dear. We don't want the curls to fall apart."
Mary sat straighter, not because she wanted to, but because she had no choice.
Today was important.
Important for her family's name. Important for her father's reputation. And, most of all, important for her upcoming marriage.
Her thoughts drifted again to the dream. That strange, beautiful dream from the night before.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Why did I dream of her again…"
She hadn't told anyone, of course. Not about the dancing, not about the warmth, and definitely not about the kiss. Just remembering it made her heart flutter and her cheeks heat up.
"Stop daydreaming, Mary," her mother scolded, noticing her far-off look in the mirror. "The Ashtons will be here today, and you need to be presentable."
Mary nodded, trying to blink the dream away. "Yes, Mother."
She knew her role. Be polite. Smile. Speak when spoken to. Pretend she was happy about being engaged to Thomas Ashton, a man she had spoken to once—briefly, awkwardly, under her father's watchful eye.
He wasn't cruel. He wasn't strange. He was just... distant. Like a shadow that didn't fit her light.
But she was the mayor's daughter.
That meant duty came first.
By afternoon, the garden was dressed in soft colors, white linen-covered tables, tiny pastries arranged like jewels, and guests in pastel silk and crisp suits. A small stage had been set at the far end, where a piano stood ready beneath a canopy of roses.
Mary stood near the stone fountain, her hands folded, a polite smile pinned to her face like a brooch.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "I should feel something. Anything. But I just feel... tired."
She turned to head toward the refreshment table when the music started.
A slow, jazzy piano intro.
And then—a voice.
Not high and fluttery like the usual singers her family hired.
This voice was rich. Smooth. A little husky, like velvet mixed with smoke. It wrapped around Mary's senses before she even saw the singer.
Her breath hitched.
The crowd parted slightly, and there she was.
A woman in a deep burgundy dress that hugged her frame just enough to make heads turn. Her skin glowed golden under the soft sunlight. Her black curls fell just past her shoulders, a few strands dancing freely. She stood with one hand resting lightly on the piano, her eyes scanning the crowd—until they landed on Mary.
Their eyes locked.
Mary froze.
It's her.
The woman from her dream.
But real. Alive. Standing not twenty steps away.
Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
Mary took an unconscious step backward, her heart pounding in her ears.
The woman's voice flowed through the garden, singing a slow, dreamy song.
"They told me dreams were meant to fade, But yours stayed strong and sweet... I never knew a stranger's eyes Could knock me off my feet..."
Mary's lips parted slightly.
It felt like the song was written just for her.
Her chest tightened with something she couldn't name—fear? longing? confusion?
Before she could stop herself, she whispered, "Who... is she?"
Beside her, a woman from the guest list leaned in and said, "That's Isabelle Hart. A jazz singer from London. The mayor invited her as a treat for the guests."
Mary swallowed hard.
"From London?"
"Yes," the guest chuckled. "Very modern, very bold. Not quite the type you'd expect here, is she?"
Mary said nothing.
Because every word, every note, every glance from Isabelle felt like a spark waiting to start a fire.
And deep inside her, something whispered:
Some dreams aren't meant to be forgotten.