The hills rolled in patient waves beneath the dying sun, layered in shades of moss and gold, as if someone had dragged a wet brush across the horizon and forgotten to lift it. Ancient oaks stood like old sentinels, their branches crooked with age and memory, leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Wildflowers—bluebells, daisies, foxglove—bowed and rose in the breeze, and somewhere beyond the hedgerows, sheep bleated lazily, unconcerned with the troubles of life.
Isabella Voss slowed her car without realizing it.
The narrow country road curved gently, bordered by stone fences softened by ivy. Isabella rolled down the window, letting the air rush in. It smelled of earth and grass and something faintly sweet—roses, she realized, the same roses her mother used to dry and tuck into drawers. The scent caught her off guard. Her throat tightened.
