Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They belong to LMM
Chapter 1.
The sun was shining beautifully over the church tower on a sunny morning. The narcissi were in proud bloom, so were the blood-red tulips in neat gardens, along the main street in Winter Harbor. Winter Harbor was always noted for it's flowers, for they were still in bloom in late summer.
Winter Harbor was a dear little town, with a nice little church, and cozy cottages. On each side of the brick road were rows of maple trees, shrubs and bushes. Little kids were running about, chasing each other, screaming with joy, no doubt their game was tremendously exciting.
If by any chance one would happen to be walking along the road, and continue around the sweet little bend, walk up a tiny hill, and look around, a beautiful sight would appear before them.
The Valley, as it was called by everyone, was a great big garden of dreams. It was dotted with trees, mighty big oaks, maples, birches, and there were bushes galore. A windy little path found it's way through the beauties of nature to a small wooden hut, and a clearing that was made into a little garden.
In it were not only the wild flowers that could be found all over the Valley, but roses, beautiful white roses, for the habitant of the hut dared not plant any other coloured rose in her garden of lost love.
There was a bench in the back of the house, run over with ivy and roses - white roses. In the whole garden there was not a spot of crimson to be found, excepting one small patch, half-hidden by a weeping willow, near the singing brook. Here only ruby red flowers bloomed, bittersweet memory-flowers. They were the memory of love, shining in that hidden place, for none to see.
Behind the friendly green door, in the house of the Valley was a cozy fireplace, a rug of green and yellow, a cheery rocking chair, and of course, as in every house, a dear little kitchen.
Up the stairs, and one would find a blue room with a wonderful windowseat, blue curtains, and faded, light blue tapestry with white roses. On a round bedside-table was a vase full of sweet smelling mayflowers. Next to the vase was a sketch of a good-looking young man, with dark hair, smokey-dreamy gray eyes, and fine features.
The man who took her heart to his grave, as she wholly believed. He, who conquered the fear in his mind and soul, and fought, fought for the love he couldn't have, for the beauty of life, for the couples, the lonely, the happy and the sad. He gave his life for the world. But he took another's.
There was a small worktable by the window, and on it, in perfect order, lined pencils of different colours. Apparently the habitant of the little dreamhut liked to draw.
This little house was all a home could be, cozy, warm, its atmosphere perfectly right. Yet still something was missing. There were no toys and play things left around, no footmarks of dirty little children, yet one felt that they should be there. They belong here, but they are not.
The room next to the blue one is yellow and green, with brightly coloured tapestry walls, a big window, which is open now, letting the cool breeze in, bringing a sweet scent of lilacs. The big cherry tree just outside reaches high up to the sky, and would make a perfect ladder for playful laddies. The green curtains are cheerful, and the yellow armchair is waiting for an occupant to sit comfortably in it.
The attic stairs come next, leading to a tiny place, great for playing hide-and-seek, and scaring each other.
This dreamhut really is a paradise for young, mischievous kids, and a happy, satisfied mother. One could wonder why a heartbroken maiden, devoid of love and happiness lives here, among the hopes and dreams forgotten, the rainbowy shadows of memories. Sad, sweet memories of lost, and of things that were to be.
She loved the place with her whole heart, it somehow brought her so close to the man of her dreams, and wouldn't live anywhere else. Everything sang of poetry, everything was so perfect and beautiful, just as the gray-eyed had loved. He loved beauty, and hated ugliness passionately.
He had a very vivid imagination, he lived a world of dreams and beauty. Yet, when the time had come, he went, he joined the brave who offered their lives for their home. He knew not of her love, and she vowed that noone shall find out, noone shall sympathise. This she has to bear alone.
There are times when she can't go on, and can't bear it. Everyone surrounding her is happy. Not happpy like before, but happy in a rich, different way. No doubt, oh, she never doubted that they all mean well, but it hurt tremendously to hear them giving tips. She can never love again. Never.
Life goes on, and brings joys with it, not only pain. She is an aunt now. The aunt of a redheaded, brown-eyed little boy born to her sister. Although she is very glad to be an aunt, she can't help feeling a little envy. Why can't she make her sister an aunt? Her dream, and she continues to dream it, no matter how hard she tries not to, is to be a mother some day.
The sun set, a big, big, dark ruby-red ball of flame, and disappeared behind the hills. Golden light fell on the tops of the trees, and the white roses glowed bathing in the evening sunshine. The wind blew, and swept bits of weeds and leaves through the woods near the cottage.
The night came, with an eerie feeling of hauntedness, which satisfied the lonely occupant of the Valley. She craved for love and companionship, but would not live with her parents or sister's family.
She loved the fierce nights just as she loved the calm ones, the ghostly shadows charmed her, and the flickering of a fire in her home gave a comfy feeling, even though she'd enjoy it a thousand times better if there was someone to share it with.