Returning to Hallow Glen

The Inheritance

The road to Morrow Glen wound like a scar through the hills, hemmed in by trees that leaned too close. Their branches brushed Isla's windshield as if to welcome her—or warn her back. The air grew heavier the deeper she drove, thick with rain and the scent of earth.

It had been fifteen years since she'd last seen the town. Fifteen years since her mother swore never to return after the summer Isla's grandmother, Edith Vale, stopped answering letters. But when the call came—"You're the last living heir"—something in Isla had stirred.

She told herself it was practicality. A farmhouse, even a broken one, was worth something. Yet beneath that, there was a quieter pull, an ache like homesickness for a place she barely remembered.

The sign for Morrow Glen appeared at a bend in the road, half-swallowed by ivy:

Welcome to Morrow Glen – Where the earth remembers.

She passed shuttered shops and weather-worn houses, the kind that seemed to lean into one another for warmth. A man in a long coat stood outside a florist's shop, watching her car crawl by. When she caught his reflection in the rearview mirror, he didn't look away.

The Vale farmhouse sat at the far edge of town, where the paved road turned to gravel and the fields began—an old Victorian thing, gray and slouching, as though tired of holding its own bones together.

When Isla stepped out, the rain stopped. Not slowed—stopped. The air went utterly still. Even the trees seemed to listen.

The garden had gone wild, but not with neglect. The flowers grew in deliberate clusters, as if arranged by invisible hands. Ferns unfurled over the porch rail, and pale blossoms she didn't recognize glowed faintly under the overcast sky.

Inside, the house smelled of lavender and something older—like the pages of a forgotten book. Dust lay thick on the furniture, yet the air felt occupied, as though someone had just stepped out of the room.

Isla traced her fingers over the carved banister, pausing when she saw faint symbols etched into the wood—spirals and root-like markings. She leaned closer. They weren't random scratches. They were purposeful.

And when she touched one, it was warm.

"You shouldn't touch those," a voice said behind her.

She spun around. A man stood in the doorway, rain still dripping from his hair, a small spade in his hand. His clothes were clean but earth-stained, his eyes a shade of green that reminded her of deep water.

"Sorry," Isla said quickly. "I didn't realize anyone was here."
"I'm Corin," he said. "I look after the grounds when no one's around."
"You're the gardener?"
He smiled faintly. "Something like that."

He stepped farther into the room, gaze moving over the walls like someone remembering rather than seeing.

"Your grandmother loved this house. Said the land keeps what it's given."

Isla looked past him to the garden through the window. The rain had begun again—soft and persistent, whispering against the glass.

"How well did you know her?" she asked.

"Well enough," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "She had a way of listening. Most people forget how."

He turned to leave, pausing at the threshold.

"If you need anything—tools, repairs, help with the garden—I live just past the mill road."

Before she could reply, he was gone, swallowed by the mist gathering in the fields.

⸻

That night, Isla lay awake in the upstairs bedroom, listening to the old house breathe. Wind sighed through the cracks in the windowpanes, and the floorboards creaked as if shifting under a weight.

She dozed near dawn and dreamed of the garden—lush and endless, blossoms swaying in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. Somewhere beneath the soil, she heard a woman's voice humming a tune she almost knew.

When she woke, the air was still and cold. Dew silvered the glass, and her reflection was pale in the early light.

Something caught her eye outside the window—a figure moving through the fog near the garden gate. Tall, slow, deliberate.

Isla blinked, and it was gone.

But when she went downstairs, she found muddy footprints on the porch—bare, and far too large to be hers.