The past slips further away with each step as the town square comes into view, a snapshot from another era. The general store stands with its hand-painted sign, the white paint peeling just enough to give it character. Across the way, a diner flaunts a red-and-white awning, the sort you’d see in an old movie. People move unhurriedly, pausing to chat on benches beneath the shade of sprawling oaks.

It’s idyllic—almost unsettling. Like this place has been frozen in time while the rest of the world hurtles forward.

I shift my bag to the other shoulder and start walking. My throat tightens, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the realization that I’m here—again—trying to find a piece of myself in a new place. Or maybe it’s the fear that I won’t. That I’ll like it too much, but I’ll have to move out too soon.

At the corner, an older man—probably in his seventies—leans against an old truck. He tips his hat in a gesture so casual it almost feels rehearsed.

“Morning, welcome to our humble town,” he greets me.

I nod, offering a small smile. “Thank you. I’m just passing through.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he studies me like he’s piecing together a puzzle only he can see. There’s a warmth to his gaze, a quiet understanding that makes me feel seen—and oddly exposed. “Birchwood Springs has a way of making people stay longer than they plan to.”

“We’ll see,” I reply, my voice light and breezy, though his words linger in the quiet spaces of my mind. I keep moving, but something about his knowing tone stays with me—a peculiar blend of comfort and unease.

Would I stay here for longer than planned? I don’t even have a plan.

Instead of worrying about it, I search for a coffee shop to grab some breakfast. Thankfully, I find it right away. The Honey Drop looks like it’s been plucked straight from a postcard: whitewashed siding, flower boxes bursting with beautiful flowers, and a mismatched collection of chairs scattered across the front porch and the sidewalk. A few townies sit outside, sipping from steaming mugs and chatting like they’ve known each other their entire lives. Maybe they have.

The soft chime of the bell above the door announces my arrival. Inside, The Honey Drop smells like roasted coffee beans, warm sugar, and something faintly citrusy. The counter is at the back of the room, stretching across it. It’s lined with glass display cases filled with pastries and snacks. Behind it, a gleaming espresso machine hisses and hums, its chrome surface reflecting the warm light.