Emily woke sitting straight up.

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For a moment, she did not know where she was. Her body was already moving before her mind could catch up; heart racing, breath shallow, muscles tight with the old, practiced urgency. In her dream, the hospital had been alive with sounds: voices calling for help, calling her name all at once. She had been needed everywhere at the same time. She always was.

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Then the noise broke apart.

The sounds thinned, stretched, and fell away, leaving behind a quiet so complete it startled her a second time. Emily blinked and took in the low wooden beams above her, the slanted ceiling of the loft where she had set up her temporary sleeping quarters. Early light filtered through the small window, dust drifting lazily in its path.

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She stayed very still, listening, waiting for the next call that did not come. Instead, from somewhere far beyond the stone walls, a rooster crowed. The sound was distant and unhurried, a simple announcement that morning had arrived whether anyone was ready for it or not.

 

Emily let out a breath she had been holding, stretched, yawned and leaned back against her pillows, one hand pressed flat to her chest as her heart slowly found a new rhythm.

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“Well,” she murmured to herself, the word hanging lightly in the quiet. Her voice sounded louder than she expected in the open space.

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She lay there a moment longer than she meant to, watching the light shift, resisting the familiar urge to spring up and begin. There was nothing demanding her attention. No one calling her name. Just dust — patient and plentiful — waiting exactly where it had been the day before.

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Eventually, she rose and made her way down into the main rooms of the old stone building. She moved through them with an ease that surprised her, as if her body had already accepted a truth her mind was still circling.

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She would not be returning to her parents’ house.

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The decision had settled quietly, without ceremony or announcement. She had tried, more than once, to imagine herself living there again; the narrow rooms, the familiar walls, the weight of memory arranged just so. Each time, the thought felt borrowed. Temporary. Like wearing a coat that no longer fit.

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Here, in the building called Hope, the feeling was different. It felt like home. Not the home she had grown up in, but the one her body seemed to recognize without explanation. The one that did not ask her to be anything in particular. The one that did not ring or buzz or call out for her attention.

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She paused in the small kitchen area and poured herself a cup of tea, the simple ritual grounding her. Steam curled upward as she stood there, unsure for a moment whether she should be doing something else. The old impulse tugged at her, the sense that rest had to be earned, that stillness was a luxury meant for later.

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As she leaned against the counter, her eyes moved through the room, faint memories of the room, of her mother, would unconsciously wafted in and out, dissipating just as quickly as the steam rising from the kettle.  Her mother's favorite sugar bowl was still on the counter, right where it had always been when they visited the old stone building. She wasn't sure exactly what her parents were doing there, but they always seemed busy.

 

Taking in the room, not aimlessly but with quiet calculation. If this was truly going to be her home, then things would need to make sense. The table should go nearer the window; better light there. A small lamp in the corner, perhaps, for evenings when the sun set sooner than she expected. She loved the old iron oven, it was perfect for when the stone walls held the cold a little too long. And it also made the best biscuits, of course she would have to find her mother's recipe first, if she was ever to experience them again. Her thoughts drifted ahead of her hands, as they always did. She had a lot still left to do; to make the Hope building her home. 

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If someone were to visit, she smiled faintly at the thought, unsure who that might ever be, they would need a place to sit that felt welcoming, not temporary. Chairs pulled close, not lined against the wall. A kitchen that looked lived in, not passed through.

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Upstairs, the loft would need more thought. She would need to spend a full day, perhaps two, to go through and move all of the old boxes still sitting under the slant of the ceiling. There was an old feather mattress already stored in the loft. It wasn't perfect but after a few poundings to release the dust that had found the mattress useful over the years, it made a fairly comfortable place to rest. It fit perfect on Emily's old iron bed frame that she brought over from her parents home. She won't be needing it there now. Because this is now, "Home." she whispered the word, as if trying it on to see if it fit. It did.

 

Privacy wasn't as much of an issue as she would be living alone and she quite enjoyed the view that the openness into the main room provided. The tall windows along both sides of the building aided in lighting up the whole loft during the daytime hours. The tall windows had been added during the renovation era of the old stone building, when the owners, her ancestors, made the building look more like a church. In fact it was used as a church for nearly a century she was told. Then as the members dwindled, the building became the place to store the extras for the next generations to come. Today, the old stone building, will serve as a home. Its had many uses, but never "home." Emily was quite happy with her decision. "Home.", again she whispered to herself, to see if it still fit. It did.

 

These were the quiet negotiations of a woman making room for herself… and for the what-ifs that followed every choice.

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After plans to make the building her home were considered, thought through and decided, she pulled on her boots, grabbed her cup and saucer and stepped outside, letting the door close softly behind her. The air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth and leaves. "The plans can wait." she told herself, as if she was answering a voice within; that was reminding her about all the plans she had just made in her head.

 

Today was a day to walk the fields, it was a bit chilly but she knew before long it would be just right. Without quite deciding where to go first, she turned toward the path that led to the creek. Although she had not recalled where it led to, at least not at first. 

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She came to a crossing where there was an opening of the stone wall she had been walking next to, she stopped to decide where she would go from there. Seeing a stand of trees across the field to her right, she chose to head there, for no reason really. Curiosity, perhaps? 

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There, tucked beneath their shade, she found the stream. Clear and steady, just as it had always been. Emily smiled softly. “Oh… I forgot the stream was so close to the old stone building.”

As a child, it had felt far away. As an adult, she realized it had never been distant at all! 

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For a brief moment, Emily considered the differences she had already begun to notice about the property, the old stone building and the hedges out back... and now the stream. It was as if a trunk full of memories was opening up and inviting her to revisit its contents. 

 

Without thinking, Emily slipped off her boots. The water was icy cold, and clearer than she expected. It rushed around her ankles as if it had been waiting. She stood there for a moment, letting the stream move past her.

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And then, Emily had a flash of memory cross her mind. 

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Her father.

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When she was small, he would sometimes bring her here with him. He loved to just to walk beside her, letting her lead the way to the stream. Once there, he always let her take off her shoes.
Telling her, "The water is meant to be felt, not avoided. Cold feet are nothing to fear."

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Standing there now, Emily could almost feel it the way she had then; the bite of the cold, the smooth stones shifting beneath her soles. The way the stream spoke in little rushes and pauses.

 

She remembered her father’s hands. Large, rough, and warm, holding her steady as she stepped from stone to stone. Keeping her balanced. Letting her go at her own pace.

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She had felt safe.

She had felt free.

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Today, with only the memory of those big, warm hands, Emily began to carefully cross the stream again. Stone by stone.

Still safe. 

And even more free. 

On the far side, Emily sat down on a smooth stretch of bedrock and watched the water pass by.
Unhurried and content to simply be there. Her eyes drifted to the small blue flowers growing along the edge. She had always loved the small flowers that grew there. They were easy to miss if you weren’t looking; pale and delicate, tucked close to the water’s edge where the ground stayed soft.

 

She leaned forward and gathered a few, humming under her breath as she did, the tune familiar but unclaimed by memory. Singing filled the space where noise once lived. It helped her think. Or not think. She was never quite sure which.

 

Emily placed the delicate flowers gently inside her tea cup. It was only then that she chuckled softly to herself. She realized that she had carried the tea cup and saucer with her the whole way. Also recalling what her mother always told her when she would take a bowl or a spoon out of the kitchen to dig for worms in the garden. 

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“Kitchen items stay in the kitchen!" 

 

Once a rule,
but now a memory.

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Emily smiled and whispered, "Sorry, Mum." 

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At the creek, she sat and let her boots rest against the stones, water moving steadily past her. Like the water, time also passed without much care. Emily had finally relaxed. And it felt good. 

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She finally stood up, and it was then she felt something brush her hand. She looked down and saw the most beautiful dragonfly had decided to light on the top of her hand. She slowly lifted her hand until the two of them were eye to eye. She marveled at his beauty and grace, as he made his way across to her other hand. Then as quickly as he arrived, he took flight again, landing a little further upstream on top of some dancing cattails growing along the bank. 

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Emily stood there watching him shimmer as the breeze tickled his wings. Emily's heart was pounding a little faster than normal, and she could have sworn she heard the dragonfly say, "Welcome Back!" Slightly startled but then again, not. She called back, "Nice to see you again!"

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Her heart thudded a few more times, then slowed. She shook her head with a small smile, thankful no one heard her speak, and looked back to the stream. Whatever it had been, the breeze, the waters, her imagination, it left behind a warmth she couldn’t quite place.

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She slipped on her boots, and gathered her tea cup with flowers, now happily tucked inside, and began her walk back to the old stone building. She felt herself almost giddy... almost skipping... as she made her way down the path. 

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"She was a brave little girl...so carefree." Emily, recalling herself as a child. She didn't feel carefree just yet. But that time would come, in due time. 

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That moment is told more fully in Finding Home, a short film found here. 

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When she returned to the building, she set the cup of flowers in the kitchen window. Almost as an act of claiming her territory. Light caught their pale blue petals, and for a moment it felt as though the outside had followed her in.

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She returned to finish unpacking her personal boxes that she had brought to the building a few weeks ago; now that she had settled it in her heart, this was home now.

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Each item found its place only after a small pause and a few furnishings shifted. She wasn’t just deciding where things fit, but whether they belonged. What could be seen. What should be tucked away. What needed to be close at hand in case the silence pressed too hard on certain days.

"What am I going to do with all these pews?", recalling that the basement already had its fill of them. 

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Her mind rarely rested, even when her body did. It moved ahead, testing possibilities, arranging futures that might never arrive. Would she feel at ease here when winter came? Would this space still hold her when loneliness tried its hand? She adjusted a stack of folded clothes, stepped back, and nodded once. It would do. It is her home now. 

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Later that week, when she again remembered it was ok to take a break from her cleaning, shuffling and settling into her new home, she found herself walking the flagstone path out one of the back doors. Her steps slowed as she went, and she became absently aware that she was counting.

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One.

Two.

Three.

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By the time she reached the fifth stone, something near the old wall caught her attention. A sound? A color? She wasn't quite sure as it happened so fast. She stood looking for a few seconds longer and decided to investigate a bit further. There was nothing there. Rather than search further, she found a warm place in the sun and sat down on the stone path by the old wall. She leaned back into the wall, now warmed by the afternoon sun. The heat sank pleasantly into her shoulders, and without meaning to, she closed her eyes.

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When she opened them again, she was no longer alone.

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A yellow tabby cat lay stretched beside her, asleep in the sunlight, older now, its movements slow and easy, its breathing deep and steady. Emily studied him quietly, a question rising and settling in her chest.

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“This surely is not the same cat,” she thought.

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The idea lingered only a moment before another sound reached her ears; the crunch of tires on gravel. Emily’s brow furrowed. “Well… who could that possibly be?” she murmured, half to herself. No one should know she was here yet. The thought stirred a flicker of curiosity, not alarm; a reminder that even in quiet places, life still arrived unannounced.

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A car was pulling into the drive.

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She straightened, suddenly aware of time again, the sun was no longer overhead, but behind her. With a last glance at the sleeping cat, Emily stood and brushed the dust from her hands. Whatever the thought had been, it could wait.

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She turned back toward the stone building as the engine idled, unaware that beneath the hedges and along the old paths, something had already noticed the shift and was beginning to stir.

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Elsewhere beneath The Hedges...

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