In the beginning
The First Hello
Every good story has a first page. Ours was quieter than most — and somehow the whole plot was already in it.
Dearest Reader,
It has come to this author's attention that there exists, in this world, a person of such uncommon warmth that the flowers have been observed turning toward her rather than the sun.
Her name — as the hills themselves seem to whisper it — is Emilie.
What follows in these pages is a modest attempt to put down, in ink and ornament, a fraction of what she is. The author confesses in advance: words shall fall short. They always do.
One remains, as ever, entirely devoted.
— Yours, faithfully
Chaptersmoments worth remembering
Not long after
The Long Walk
The one where neither of us wanted to say the word "goodbye," so we simply took the longest possible way to it.
A season later
The Mountain Morning
Cold hands, warm tea, and a view that tried very hard to be the most beautiful thing there. It came second.
On an ordinary Tuesday
The Small Things
It turns out love is mostly made of Tuesdays — of borrowed sweaters, shared songs, and laughing at nothing at all.
And now
This Very Page
Which exists for no reason other than that you do — and that seemed, to the author, reason enough.
The Gardentap a bloom — each one is a reason
Postcardsfrom the story so far
One last thingfor your eyes only
Emilie,
If you have scrolled all the way here, then you already know what this entire page has been trying to say. But in case the flowers and the violins were too subtle:
you are, quite simply, my favourite story.
— break the seal —