Annabelle James woke to the shrill, insistent beep of her alarm clock, the sound slicing through the predawn hush of her apartment like a warning bell. She groaned, rolling over and slapping at the snooze button with the gracelessness of someone who had never, not once, been a morning person. For a moment, she lay there, eyes squeezed shut, listening to the familiar symphony of Cedar Hollow waking up around her: the distant rumble of a delivery truck on Main Street, the low, comforting hum of her neighbor's radio playing old jazz standards, the faint clatter of someone's shoes on the stairs outside her door.
She finally forced herself upright, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The chill of the wooden floorboards made her shiver, but she didn't mind. It was a small price to pay for the view she got from her window—her favorite thing about her tiny, cluttered apartment. She shuffled over, pulling aside the faded curtain and peering out at the town below.
Cedar Hollow was the kind of place that felt like a secret. It was all winding brick streets, ivy-draped lampposts, and old stone buildings painted in warm, sun-faded colors. The bakery across the street was already open, golden light spilling onto the sidewalk as Mr. O'Leary arranged trays of pastries in the window. The air was crisp and clean, tinged with the scent of yeast and cinnamon. Annabelle watched as a group of schoolchildren darted past, their laughter echoing off the shop fronts, their backpacks bouncing.
She smiled, feeling the familiar ache of nostalgia. She'd grown up here, or at least grown up enough to remember the way the town changed with the seasons: the explosion of daffodils in spring, the sticky heat of summer fairs, the blaze of red and gold leaves in October. Cedar Hollow was small, but it was home—a place where everyone knew your name, and sometimes, that was both a comfort and a curse.
Annabelle moved through her morning routine with the absent-minded efficiency of someone who lived alone. She pulled on her favorite oversized sweater—soft and worn, splattered with paint from a dozen late-night projects—and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. Her hair was a riot of dark curls, impossible to tame, so she twisted it into a messy bun and hoped for the best. In the bathroom mirror, she caught a glimpse of her own face: wide, blue-green eyes, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and a mouth that always seemed on the verge of a smile, even when she didn't feel like it.
She made coffee in her chipped mug, the one with the faded Van Gogh print, and popped a slice of bread in the toaster. While she waited, she scribbled a note to herself on a sticky pad—Buy more cerulean blue. Her art supplies always seemed to run out at the worst times, but she didn't mind the excuse to visit the little shop on Willow Lane. She buttered her toast, burned her tongue on the first bite, and laughed at herself, shaking her head.
The apartment was a mess, but it was her mess. Canvases leaned against every available surface—some finished, most abandoned in frustration. Jars of paintbrushes, their bristles stiff and stained, crowded the windowsill. The walls were hung with her favorite pieces: a stormy seascape she'd painted the night before her high school graduation, a portrait of her mother from memory, a riotous abstract that looked different every time she glanced at it.
She gathered her things—sketchbook, pencils, wallet, keys—and slung her bag over her shoulder. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, painting everything in gold. For a moment, Annabelle stood still, breathing in the quiet, letting herself feel grateful for the simple, ordinary beauty of the day.
Down on the street, Cedar Hollow was coming alive. Mr. O'Leary waved from the bakery, flour dusting his beard like snow. "Morning, Anna! Raspberry danish today?"
She grinned, jogging across the street. "You know me too well, Mr. O'Leary."
He handed her a warm pastry wrapped in wax paper, and she handed over a crumpled dollar bill. "Big plans today?"
"Just the usual," she said, tucking the danish into her bag. "Work, class, maybe some painting if I'm lucky."
He winked. "Keep making the world beautiful, kid."
She laughed, waving as she continued down the block. The town square was bustling with activity: a group of joggers stretching by the fountain, Mrs. Peabody feeding pigeons with the intensity of a general commanding her troops, a street musician tuning his guitar beneath the old clock tower. The air was filled with the scent of fresh bread, coffee, and the first hints of spring.
Annabelle took the long way to work, savoring the quiet moments before the day truly began. She passed the library, its windows fogged with condensation, and the antique shop with its display of dusty violins and porcelain dolls. The florist was setting out buckets of peonies and tulips, their colors bright against the gray stone. Annabelle paused, breathing in the sweet, earthy scent, and smiled at the woman arranging the flowers.
"Morning, Anna," the florist called, her hands stained green.
"Morning, Mrs. Liu. The peonies look amazing."
"They're stubborn this year, but worth it." Mrs. Liu winked. "Like some people I know."
Annabelle laughed, feeling lighter than she had in days. She continued on, her steps quickening as she neared Scoops of Joy.
The ice cream parlor was impossible to miss. Painted a cheerful mint green, with a neon sign in the shape of a triple-scoop cone, it was a beacon of sugar and nostalgia. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of waffle cones and caramel, and the walls were covered in framed photos of smiling customers—some of them decades old.
Annabelle tied on her apron, already stained from a thousand shifts, and joined the morning crew. Riley was there, humming along to the radio as they restocked the napkin dispensers, their hair dyed a new shade of electric blue. Priya, always punctual, was arranging the spoons by color, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Morning, Picasso," Ms. Liza boomed from behind the counter. Ms. Liza was a force of nature—tall, broad-shouldered, with a laugh that could shake the sprinkles off the shelves. Her hair was a different color every week; today, it was a shade of magenta that matched her lipstick.
"Morning, Ms. Liza," Annabelle replied, stifling a yawn. "You're up early."
"I never sleep. Too many dreams to chase," Ms. Liza declared, winking. "Now, let's make today a masterpiece."
The morning rush began in earnest. Annabelle moved through the motions with practiced ease—scooping rainbow sherbet for a little girl in pigtails, recommending the new pistachio flavor to a couple on their first date, joking with Riley about the merits of sprinkles versus chocolate chips.
"Sprinkles are the soul of ice cream," Riley insisted, tossing a handful onto a sundae.
"Says the person who once tried to dye their hair with them," Annabelle shot back, grinning.
Priya rolled her eyes. "If you two spent half as much time working as you do bantering, we'd be running this place."
Annabelle laughed, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. For a while, the world was just laughter, sugar, and the steady rhythm of scooping and serving. But every so often, she caught herself glancing toward the window, a prickling at the back of her neck.
It was during a lull, as she wiped down the counter, that she saw him. An old man stood just outside, half-hidden in the shadow of the awning. He was tall and thin, his posture ramrod straight. His hair, silver and neatly combed, caught the morning light, but it was his eyes that made Annabelle's breath catch—an unnatural, almost luminescent shade of pale purple. He watched her with a gaze that was both piercing and distant, as if he were seeing something far beyond the glass.
Annabelle blinked, and he was gone. She shook her head, trying to laugh it off. Maybe she'd been staring at the neon sign too long.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur. By noon, the line snaked out the door, and Annabelle barely had time to think. But the image of the old man lingered, a shadow at the edge of her thoughts.
After work, she changed out of her apron and made her way to Cedar Hollow Arts College. The campus was a mix of old and new—red-brick buildings with ivy crawling up their sides, modern glass structures that caught the sunlight, and sprawling lawns where students lounged with textbooks and coffee.
Emma was waiting for her by the steps of the art building, camera slung around her neck, her pixie cut sticking up in cheerful defiance. She wore a sweater two sizes too big and a pair of battered sneakers covered in doodles.
"Survived another morning in dairy hell?" Emma called, snapping a photo of Annabelle mid-eye roll.
"Barely. If I hear the Baby Shark song one more time, I'm defecting to the frozen yogurt place," Annabelle replied, falling into step beside her.
Emma grinned. "You'd miss the chaos. And Ms. Liza's motivational speeches."
"True. She did tell me I was 'the Picasso of pistachio' today."
They headed inside, joining the throng of students filing into Professor Marten's art history class. Professor Marten was a legend—eccentric, passionate, and completely oblivious to personal space. He swept into the room, arms full of slides and books, his wild hair a halo of gray.
"Art is not about beauty!" he declared, slamming a stack of papers onto the desk. "It's about truth! About confronting the darkness within ourselves!"
Annabelle exchanged a look with Emma, who stifled a laugh. The class was a blur of dramatic gestures, impassioned lectures, and the occasional near-miss with a flying piece of chalk. Annabelle took notes, her handwriting looping and artistic, while Emma doodled caricatures of the professor in the margins.
After class, they sprawled on the grass outside, the sun warm on their faces. Emma snapped photos of squirrels ("They're plotting something, I swear"), while Annabelle sketched the scene in her notebook. Their conversation meandered from art to awkward encounters—like Annabelle's run-in with the campus security guard, who was convinced she was late for a class she wasn't even taking.
As the afternoon faded, Emma nudged her. "You okay? You've been weirdly quiet."
Annabelle hesitated, then shrugged. "Just tired, I guess. And… I saw someone strange this morning. An old man, outside the shop. He was just… watching."
Emma's expression shifted, concern flickering beneath her teasing. "Maybe he's just a harmless eccentric. This town's full of characters."
"Yeah. Probably." But Annabelle couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more.
The sun was sliding down the sky by the time Annabelle and Emma left the quad. The campus was shifting into its late afternoon rhythm—students sprawled on the grass with laptops, a group of drama majors rehearsing lines under the old oak, and the ever-present hum of someone's Bluetooth speaker leaking indie pop into the air.
"Hey, Picasso," Emma said, nudging Annabelle with her elbow as they walked toward the bike racks. "You wanna grab coffee before you head home? I need caffeine if I'm going to survive editing my photo project."
Annabelle grinned. "Only if you promise not to psychoanalyze me with your artsy camera angles again. Last time you made me look like I was plotting world domination."
Emma snorted. "Please. You'd be the world's most distracted supervillain. You'd get halfway through your evil monologue and start talking about brush technique."
"Touché," Annabelle said, laughing. "But you're buying. I'm still recovering from last week's rent."
They ducked into the Corner Cup, the campus coffee shop that smelled perpetually of espresso and cinnamon. The barista, a guy with a man bun and a tattoo of a koi fish winding up his arm, greeted them with a lazy wave.
"Anna, Emma. The usual?"
"Make mine a double," Emma said, dropping her bag with a thud. "I've got a date with Photoshop and a headache."
Annabelle leaned on the counter, eyeing the pastry display. "Do you think if I stare at that croissant long enough, it'll give itself to me out of pity?"
The barista grinned. "You can try, but it's pretty heartless."
Emma rolled her eyes. "Don't encourage her. She already talks to her paintbrushes."
Annabelle shrugged, unbothered. "They're better listeners than most people."
Their drinks arrived, and they found a table by the window. Annabelle watched the world outside—the shifting crowds, the way the light caught on the glass, the old man in the gray coat who always seemed to be feeding the pigeons, rain or shine.
"So," Emma said, stirring her coffee, "are you going to tell me what's really up, or do I have to bribe it out of you with baked goods?"
Annabelle hesitated, then sighed. "It's nothing. Just… weird vibes today. I keep seeing this old guy around town. He was outside the shop this morning, and I swear I saw him again just now, by the fountain. He's got these… I don't know. Strange eyes."
Emma arched an eyebrow. "Strange how? Like, 'I haven't slept in a week' strange, or 'I might be a wizard' strange?"
"Definitely more wizard than insomniac," Annabelle said. "They're this pale purple, almost silver. And he just… stares. Not in a creepy way, exactly. More like he's looking through me."
Emma considered this, then shrugged. "Maybe he's an art critic. Or a time traveler. Or maybe you're just tired and your brain is making up stories."
Annabelle laughed, feeling some of the tension drain away. "Yeah, probably. My brain does have a flair for the dramatic."
Emma grinned. "It's why we're friends."
They finished their drinks, swapping stories about their professors—Emma's photography teacher, who wore only turtlenecks and spoke exclusively in metaphors, and Annabelle's painting instructor, who insisted on calling everyone "darling" and once painted an entire mural with a broom.
By the time they parted ways, Annabelle was feeling lighter. She waved goodbye to Emma, promising to text her later, and started the walk home.
The streets of Cedar Hollow were shifting into evening. Shopkeepers pulled in their signs, the bakery's windows glowed with the last loaves of the day, and the air was tinged with woodsmoke from the old houses up on the hill. Annabelle took the scenic route, weaving through the narrow lanes behind the main square, past the antique shop with its display of clocks and the florist's window spilling over with color.
She paused at the Wishing Well Fountain, tossing in a penny out of habit. "Here's to making it through another day without embarrassing myself," she murmured, though she knew it was already too late for that.
As she walked, she replayed the day in her mind—the laughter at the shop, the chaos of class, the strange, persistent sense of being watched. She shook her head, determined not to let her imagination get the better of her.
Her apartment building was old, with creaky stairs and a door that stuck in the summer. She let herself in, dropping her bag by the door and kicking off her shoes. The space was quiet, filled with the fading light of sunset and the scattered remnants of her life: canvases propped against the walls, jars of brushes, a pile of laundry she kept meaning to fold.
She changed into an old T-shirt and leggings, tying her hair up again. With a deep breath, she set up her easel by the window, the city lights just beginning to flicker on outside. She squeezed out paint onto her palette—crimson, ochre, cerulean blue—and began to work on her latest piece, a portrait that was slowly taking on the shape of Emma's face.
As she painted, the world narrowed to the rhythm of brush on canvas, the blending of colors, the slow emergence of form from chaos. She lost track of time, lost herself in the work, until the shadows in the room seemed to stretch and shift, and a chill crept up her spine.
Annabelle paused, brush hovering in midair. The room was silent, but the sense of being watched was back, stronger than before. She glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing in the doorway, but the apartment was empty.
She shook her head, trying to laugh it off. "Get a grip, Anna. You're not the star of a haunted house movie."
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling. The old man's eyes lingered in her mind, pale and unblinking.
She ran out of cerulean blue—of course. With a sigh, she wiped her hands on a rag and checked the time. The art supply store on Willow Lane would be closing soon, but if she hurried, she could make it.
She grabbed her wallet and keys, pulling on a jacket against the evening chill. The streets were quieter now, the last of the daylight fading to indigo. She walked quickly, her footsteps echoing on the cobblestones.
As she neared the store, she saw him again—the old man, standing under a flickering street lamp. He was watching her, his eyes catching the light in a way that made her breath hitch.
Annabelle hesitated, then forced herself to keep walking. "It's just a coincidence," she muttered. "Just a weird old guy."
But as she passed him, he spoke—his voice low and rough, like gravel. "Be careful, Annabelle."
She stopped, heart pounding. "Do I know you?"
He shook his head, a faint, sad smile on his lips. "Not yet."
Before she could respond, a car horn blared. She turned, blinded by headlights. Tires screeched, the world spun, and pain exploded behind her eyes.
Everything went black.
[To be continued]
A girl with paint-smudged fingers.
A lecture half-heard.
Ice cream dripping onto worn shoes.
Laughter. Eye rolls. A spark of something magical.
Music shifts — eerie strings begin to rise.
A man in the distance.
Violet eyes.
Watching. Always watching.
Streetlamps flicker. Her footsteps echo.
A missing tube of paint.
A late-night walk.
A flash of headlights—
screeching tires—
glass—
silence.
Black screen.
A girl with paint-smudged fingers.
A lecture half-heard.
Ice cream dripping onto worn shoes.
Laughter. Eye rolls. A spark of something magical.
Music shifts — eerie strings begin to rise.
A man in the distance.
Violet eyes.
Watching. Always watching.
Streetlamps flicker. Her footsteps echo.
A missing tube of paint.
A late-night walk.
A flash of headlights—
screeching tires—
glass—
silence.
Black screen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- Signing off ;)💋🧿🩷