Secrets in the Village

The village of Oakhaven was a study in muted colours and hushed tones. After the raw, untamed expanse of the sea, its neat cottages, thatched roofs, and perfectly tended gardens felt almost suffocatingly orderly. It was a place where curtains twitched but never fully opened, where smiles were offered but didn't quite reach the eyes. Kelly, ever the observer, had been the first to notice it, her small hand tightening on my arm as we’d followed the winding path from the shore. “It’s… quiet, Keller,” she’d whispered, her voice barely audible above the gentle rustle of leaves. And she was right. It was a quiet that felt less like peace and more like a held breath.

We’d been directed to Oakhaven by the gruff fisherman who’d grudgingly pointed us towards the land, a man who seemed more annoyed by our arrival than anything else. He’d grunted something about “the proper folk” and gestured vaguely inland. Now, walking past the baker’s shop, the scent of warm bread doing little to dispel the growing unease in my chest, I found myself scanning faces, searching for something, anything, that felt familiar or welcoming. The people we passed were polite. Very polite. They’d nod, offer a quick “Good day,” but their eyes would slide away, as if afraid to linger. It was like trying to catch smoke.

We were looking for anyone who might have heard of the “UK people.” The phrase, so full of promise back in Agenda, now felt like a riddle. Were they the ones who lived here? Were they special? Did they have answers? The fisherman’s dismissiveness had been the first crack in my grand expectations. He’d certainly not acted like any ‘UK person’ I’d imagined. He was just… a man. A tired, weathered man.