The bus hissed to a stop with a tired groan, like it, too, was relieved to be done with the journey. Dust swirled lazily around the wheels, catching in the late afternoon light that filtered through thick summer air. Calla Mireille Vale stepped off, one foot landing on the cracked pavement of the Edevane bus stop.
She looked like any other tired young woman.
Joggers, faded black. An oversized checkered shirt hung open over a fitted white crop top, slightly wrinkled from hours of sitting. Her curly dark hair was tied into a low, loose ponytail, strands clinging to the nape of her neck. Her white sneakers were scuffed, soles almost sighing as she walked. One hand tugged along a worn, grey suitcase with wheels that squeaked in protest. The other steadied the weight of her black backpack.
She blinked against the brightness, scanning the street. There wasn't much to scan.
The town of Edevane unfolded like something out of a still photograph—weathered houses with clean porches, a bakery with a pastel awning, children riding bicycles down quiet lanes, and flowerbeds that looked too precise to be accidental. Birds chirped somewhere above, and wind chimes sang gently in a far-off backyard.
Charming. Sleepy. Safe.
A small wooden sign across the road read:
Welcome to Edevane – Where Peace Finds You.
Calla exhaled slowly. "Sure," she muttered under her breath.
She walked toward a bench under a jacaranda tree. Purple blossoms had begun to fall, gathering like lazy confetti at its roots. A few petals landed in her hair, unnoticed.
A woman passed by, smiling brightly. "You just get in, dear?"
Calla nodded politely. "Yes. First time here."
"Well, you'll love it. Everyone does. There's a warmth to this place, you'll see." The woman waved and crossed the street toward the market.
Calla watched her go.
She sat down, tugging out a water bottle and sipping. Her eyes moved with quiet purpose—clocking every alley, every window, every passerby—but her expression remained neutral. Just another girl new to town. Tired. Normal.
A tall man in a linen shirt waved from behind the bakery counter. A group of girls in white dresses strolled past with ice creams. Somewhere behind her, wind stirred the jacaranda branches again.
The peace of it all was nearly hypnotic.
She waited on the bench for a few minutes, phone in hand, pretending to check directions. A town map stood nearby in a glass case. Neat, clean, friendly.
A small lodging came recommended online—The Dove's Rest. Affordable. Walkable. Two stars on the map.
She stood, adjusted her grip on her suitcase, and started walking.
No one knew her here. She hadn't told anyone she was coming. She hadn't posted a thing online. The name she gave at the counter would be her own, of course—but nothing else she said had to be.
As she walked down the quiet main road, Calla let her shoulders sag just enough to look weary. She gave a half-smile to a boy watering sunflowers. She admired a stained-glass mural outside a chapel.
She passed the Church of the New Covenant without a second glance.
Just another old building. Clean. White. Harmless.
Inside her bag, nestled between clothes and toiletries, a single creased postcard lay inside a zippered pocket.
But Calla didn't look at it. Not yet.
She reached the Dove's Rest, pressed the bell at the counter, and when the middle-aged innkeeper appeared with a smile and warm tea in hand, Calla smiled back—softly, with tired eyes and grateful lips.
"Room for one?" she asked.
The woman nodded. "Of course, sweetheart. You're going to love it here. Everyone finds something in Edevane."
Calla blinked.
"Yes," she said gently, voice sweet. "I'm hoping I do."