Viola McCoy
The quiet hits first.
No horns. No sirens. No clacking heels on pavement or elevator dings. Just birdsong. The rustle of trees. The occasional car crunching down a gravel road.
It’s unsettling at first but I settle into it slowly. Like slipping into a bath that’s too hot at first, but soon becomes exactly what you didn’t know you needed.
The little house I’ve rented is old but sweet. Pale yellow with white trim. A tiny porch and chipped wooden steps. The kind of place that feels like it holds memories, even if they aren’t mine.
I unpack the last box and place it in the corner like a ceremony. I haven’t put anything up on the walls. I don’t know if I want to. It still feels temporary, even though I keep telling myself I left for good.
I grab a light jacket and walk.
There’s a stretch of road lined with trees that leads into the town center—a small strip with a bakery, post office, diner, bookstore, and a modest little clinic tucked beside a flower shop.
I don’t plan on goin
