I sip my coffee and eavesdrop on the conversation next to me.

“The Author hasn’t sent a note in 2 years,” one girl says in hushed tones.

“Yeah… do you think…” the other girl replies, the question left waiting for someone to finish it.

“They died?” I whisper from right behind them.

They both shriek and turn around.

Once they see it is me, they relax.

“Raven! How are you?” the first girl, Cassiope, asks.

“I’m well,” I say, sipping my coffee.

The other girl, Arielle, looks at me oddly, like she is trying to place my face. I see as recognition sets in and her expression quickly turns to pity.

It’s an expression I’m used to.

“Well, I better get going. It was nice to see you.”

Even after 10 years, the stares, the whispers, the looks never go away.

I walk on a gravelly path and hear two people talking.

“You hear about The Author?”

“Have they sent a note?”

“No. The opposite. Some are wondering if they’re dead.”

“How about you?”

“I sure hope so. That cretin has done enough damage already.”

The Author is infamous. No one knows who they are. All anyone knows is that every couple months The Author sends a note to a poor, unsuspecting soul. The next day, they vanish.

At first, our village was freaked out, as expected. For years, local police tried to track The Author down, until they realized it was useless. The Author is as mysterious as they are smart.

The fact that they haven’t sent a note in 2 years means something. But no one knows what.

I stop by the market. Mama G spots me.

“Raven! You always have to come by right when I’m closing!” she says, warmly.

“You could throw me out. But I’m too charming to resist.”

I shoot her a grin.

She rolls her eyes fondly and starts putting together my weekly order.

The nice thing about this town is that people mind their own business. Nobody asks questions they don’t want the answers to.

At least not out loud.

Curiosity is hidden behind stares. People have hidden ways of figuring things out. Everyone in this town probably knows a lot more then they’re supposed to.

Keeping a secret in this town is hard.

Who knows how I’ve kept mine so long.

I slide Mama G twenty gold coins, pick up my bag and exit the store.

I head up a long stony sidewalk, passing numerous little cottages. It’s dinner time and the smell of home-cooked meals, wafting out through the cottage windows, make my mouth water.

When I finally get to the top, I quickly glance around to make sure nobody is watching, and head into the woods. I make my way around the overgrown vines, in a path I know all too well.

After five minutes and twenty more scratches, I finally get to my cottage.

I glance up at the sky and see two menacing clouds. A storm is coming. Perfect.

I push open my door and immediately light a few candles. The darkness creeps me out.

I place my groceries meticulously in the fridge. Milk in the dairy section, spinach in the greens section, and so on.

Once I’m finished, I head into the shower and scrub every part of my body until it’s red. I watch as the soapy water mixed with dirt slides into the drain.

Freshly showered and dried, I sit behind my desk and ponder.

It’s a daily ritual. It’s how I get inspiration. Or how I used to.

I haven’t been inspired in two years. Yet, I still try.

My mind wanders.

I remember late summer nights sitting around a campfire with our entire village. Singing along to whatever song and holding hands with… who?

I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?

Snowman.

Popsicles.

Fenced yard.

Lavender.

Stars…

Something about stars..

Wait…

My eyes pop open. I grab a sheet of paper and a pen.

Putting my pen onto paper, I write something I haven’t written in two years.

‘The Author is looking for you.’