Thomas's Doubts

Thomas stood at the edge of the village common, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his brow furrowed like a ploughed field. The afternoon sun cast long shadows, but it did little to warm the chill that had settled over Oakhaven. Elara, a splash of soft grey against the weathered wood of her cottage door, watched him from a distance. She’d seen him talking to Elder Maeve earlier, his gestures sharp and agitated, his voice a low rumble of discontent. Now, he was surveying the cluster of houses, his gaze lingering on the shuttered windows and the unnaturally quiet paths.

Elara understood his unease. The missing tools, the strange lights flickering in the dark woods, the unsettling whispers carried on the wind – these weren't things that happened in Oakhaven. Not usually. And now, there was Elara, the quiet woman who’d appeared out of nowhere a few years ago, knitting away in her solitary cottage, and suddenly, these peculiar events were unfolding. It was natural for suspicion to bloom in such fertile ground.

She had been carefully unraveling a particularly intricate section of her latest shawl, the yarn a deep, forest green, when she’d seen Thomas heading towards her. His usual easy stride was replaced by a determined, almost aggressive pace. He stopped a few feet from her gate, his boots crunching on the gravel path.