The Time We Met
Chapter 1: The Time We Met
Mae Anderson didn’t cry when the moving truck pulled away from her old driveway in the city. She didn’t cry when her bedroom disappeared behind cardboard boxes or when her best friend Eliza waved a little too long. But she did cry the first night in Willow Creek—quietly, under her new floral bedspread that smelled like cedar and distance.
She had turned thirteen three weeks earlier. Too young to feel completely in control, too old to admit she felt lost.
Willow Creek was the kind of town where time moved slower. The river carved its way gently through the middle of it, and the people were either too friendly or not friendly at all. The only grocery store had one cashier. The movie theater played the same film three weeks in a row. And Mae was convinced nothing interesting would ever happen here.
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Chapter 2: The Bridge Between Us
Leo stopped bringing pinecones after a week.
It wasn’t that he gave up. It was just that when someone builds a wall, even the best climbers eventually run out of rope. Every morning for seven days, he left something small at Mae’s door—a shell, a doodle, a wildflower tucked under a rock. And every morning, it stayed there longer than the last, untouched.
After the seventh day, he stopped going.
The bridge where they used to meet sat abandoned, the wind rattling the loose boards like a whisper Mae wasn’t ready to hear.
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Chapter 3: Paper Hearts
Spring in Willow Creek came slowly, like a shy guest arriving at a party. Snow melted into rivulets that fed the river, grass peeked out in stubborn patches, and the trees wore halos of new green.
Mae turned fifteen in March. It rained that day—the soft kind of rain that smells like mud and hope. She didn’t plan a party. She didn’t want cake or decorations. All she wanted was the bridge, Leo, and the feeling that maybe, somehow, she hadn’t been forgotten by the world after all.
When she got to the bridge after lunch, Leo was already there.
He was soaking wet, perched on the middle plank, holding something above his head like a trophy: a battered shoebox, protected (barely) by a plastic grocery bag.
“You’re late!” he shouted over the rain.
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Chapter 4: The Year of Silence
It didn’t happen all at once.
There was no dramatic goodbye, no shouted argument under the bridge, no tearful promises whispered in the dark.
It happened the way leaves fall in autumn—one by one, so quietly you hardly notice until the branches are bare.
July was the last truly perfect month.
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Chapter 5: Where the Fireflies Wait
Mae didn’t expect to see him again.
By seventeen, she had learned how to tuck memories into corners of her mind—the way you fold up old maps of places you know you’ll never visit again. She stopped checking the bridge every morning. She stopped waiting for letters. She lived her life like people were supposed to: moving forward.
Or at least pretending to.
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Chapter 6: Kisses and Goodbyes
The weeks that followed were stitched together with hope and hesitation.
Mae and Leo didn’t try to explain what they were. They didn’t put a name to it. They just were—as natural as the river’s flow, as fragile as the wings of the fireflies they chased at dusk.
Some nights, Leo would throw pebbles at Mae’s window until she climbed out onto the roof, and they’d lie side by side watching the sky. Other times, Mae would find a folded paper heart in her mailbox: Meet me at the bridge scribbled inside.
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Chapter 7: Letters You Never Sent
Mae didn’t mean to keep writing to him.
It started as habit more than hope—scraps of paper pulled from notebooks, napkins stolen from the campus café, the backs of syllabi she didn’t bother to read. Whenever the ache built too high, she let it spill out in ink.
Dear Leo,
Today it rained and the river near campus overflowed. It made me think of you.
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Chapter 8: The Things We Didn’t Say
Mae didn’t know why she went to the Willow Creek summer fair that night.
Maybe it was habit—some old rhythm her body remembered even when her heart tried to forget. Maybe it was nostalgia, or boredom, or just the quiet pull of a place that had once meant everything.
Whatever the reason, she found herself weaving through the small crowd gathered on the town green, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and cut grass, the bright lights of the carousel spinning in slow, lazy circles.
She didn’t expect to see him.
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Chapter 9: The Last Summer
Willow Creek smelled like rain that summer.
The storms rolled through in heavy, unexpected bursts—washing the streets clean, making the river rise and swell. The whole town felt suspended in a constant breath, like it was waiting for something.
Mae stayed longer than she meant to.
Originally, she had planned just a weekend. Visit her mom. Breathe the old air for a few days. Move on.
But something about being home—or at least the closest thing to home she had left—made her linger.
Maybe because she knew, deep down, that this was the last summer she and Leo would ever share in the same zip code.
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Chapter Last: The River Remembers
Years passed.
Not all at once. Not in sweeping cinematic montages.
They passed in the quiet, ordinary way life tends to move forward—laundry days, morning coffee, new cities, new friendships, heartbreaks, victories too small for anyone else to notice but big enough to shift the ground beneath you.
Mae built a life.
It was messy and beautiful, full of mornings where she doubted herself and nights where she believed anything was possible.
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ECHOES BENEATH ASHES
Chapter 1: The Arrival
The train screeched to a halt at Ashbourne Station, its shrill whistle slicing through the stillness of the crisp autumn morning. Clara Dorne stepped off the carriage, the wheels of her suitcase rattling against the uneven cobblestones of the platform. The faint scent of charred wood hung in the air, mingling with the damp earth and the faint perfume of decaying leaves—a scent she knew would linger long after her stay.
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Chapter 2: Whispers in the Fog
The morning fog clung to Ashbourne like a ghostly shroud, muffling the world in a damp, silvery haze. Clara awoke to the sound of her phone vibrating on the bedside table of the cottage. The display read an unfamiliar number, and for a moment, she hesitated. Taking a deep breath, she swiped to answer.
“Miss Dorne?” The voice was low, gruff, and edged with urgency.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“A friend. Let’s leave it at that. If you’re serious about finding the truth about the Blackthorn fire, meet me at the old church. Noon.”
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Chapter 3: Shadows of the Past
Clara Dorne wasn’t the type to scare easily. She had learned early in her career that fear was a luxury she couldn’t afford. At 32, she had built a reputation as a relentless journalist, the kind who asked the hard questions and never backed down from a story, no matter how dangerous or convoluted it became. But beneath her polished confidence and piercing green eyes lay a patchwork of scars—both literal and figurative—that hinted at a life spent chasing shadows.
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Chapter 4: The Call of the Ashes
Clara’s decision to come to Ashbourne wasn’t a coincidence; it was a blend of professional ambition, personal curiosity, and an inexplicable sense of destiny. The story had started like many others—a whisper on the wind, a thread of intrigue dangling just out of reach. But as Clara dug deeper, it became clear that this wasn’t just another assignment. It was something far more compelling, something that felt almost personal.
The Call of the Blackthorn Fire
Two weeks before her arrival, Clara had received a cryptic, unsigned letter at her office. The envelope, aged and smudged, stood out amidst the usual clutter of emails and press releases. Inside, the message was brief but haunting:
“The truth lies beneath the ashes. Blackthorn wasn’t an accident. Come to Ashbourne if you’re ready to uncover what they tried to bury.”
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Chapter 5: The Flight from the Graveyard
The flashlight’s sudden failure plunged the graveyard into a dense, almost suffocating darkness. Clara’s breath quickened, her fingers instinctively reaching for the small pistol tucked into her coat pocket. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed in the still air: “Elias?”
No response.
Her pulse thudded in her ears as she scanned the thick fog with the faint glow of her phone. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves. She called out again, louder this time, “Elias! Where are you?”
Still nothing.
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Chapter 6: Clues in the Journal
The pale morning light seeped through the curtains, bathing the cluttered table in a soft, muted glow. Clara sat with her third cup of coffee, the journal open before her, its charred edges a reminder of the fire that had left the Blackthorn Estate in ruins. The events of the previous day replayed in her mind like a fragmented dream—the haunting ruins, the heavy chest in the cellar, and the detective’s ominous words about the Blackthorn family’s secrets.
She flipped through the journal’s brittle pages, her eyes scanning the looping handwriting for something she might have missed. Lila’s words were fragmented, a mix of fear, frustration, and cryptic observations. Clara jotted down notes as she read, piecing together a timeline of events leading up to the fire.
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Chapter 7: The Blackthorn Ledger
The early morning air was crisp as Clara stepped out of the Cornerstone Café, her notebook tucked securely under her arm. Hensley fell into step beside her, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. The small town of Ashbourne had begun to stir, shopkeepers flipping signs to “Open” and the faint hum of traffic picking up. Yet, for Clara, the world felt suspended, the weight of the Blackthorn mystery pressing down on her.
“Where do you want to start?” Hensley asked, his voice breaking the silence.
Clara glanced at her notes. “Wexler. If he was involved in something as dangerous as you’ve implied, there must be a trail—even if it’s a cold one. Someone in town might remember something.”
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Chapter 8: The Underground Vault
The next morning, Clara sat in the passenger seat of Hensley’s car, her notebook open on her lap. They were heading toward the Blackthorn Estate, now nothing more than a charred skeleton of its former self. Clara’s research into the financial records had confirmed her suspicion: the underground construction permit wasn’t for renovations or a wine cellar. It was something far more secure, and far more dangerous.
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Chapter 9: Beneath the Vault
Clara’s flashlight flickered as she moved closer to the wall, the symbol’s sharp edges glinting faintly under the beam. Her fingers traced its surface, the metal cold and unyielding. A faint humming sound seemed to emanate from it, sending a shiver up her spine.
“It’s the same as the one in Lila’s journal,” she murmured. “But it feels like it’s… alive.”
Hensley frowned, his eyes narrowing as he studied the room. “This whole place feels off. Like it’s been waiting for someone to find it.”
Clara’s gaze drifted back to the vault. The smooth surface reflected her flashlight, its seamless construction giving no indication of a way to open it. She knelt down,
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Chapter 10: The Blackthorn Tragedy
The events leading up to the death of the Blackthorn family remain shrouded in mystery, but reports from that fateful night paint a harrowing picture.
The first sign of trouble came shortly after sundown. Neighbors living near the Blackthorn Estate reported seeing strange lights flickering in the windows of the mansion. Some described them as “unnatural,” a bluish glow that seemed to pulse in time with a low humming sound that could be heard even from a distance.
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Chapter 11: The Clue Tree
The rain pattered softly against the windows of Clara’s cottage, a rhythmic backdrop to the dimly lit room. She sat at her desk, a steaming mug of coffee growing cold beside her, and stared at the sprawling mess of notes, photos, and documents spread across the wall. Her “clue tree,” as she had started calling it, was slowly taking shape.
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Chapter 12: The First Coordinates
The sun had barely risen when Clara and Hensley arrived at the location marked by the first set of coordinates. The site was deep in the woods outside Ashbourne, a remote clearing surrounded by towering pines. Mist hung low over the ground, clinging to their boots as they stepped out of Hensley’s car.
Clara unfolded the map and checked her notes. “This is it. The first point.”
Hensley looked around, his hand resting near his holster. “Doesn’t look like much. What exactly are we looking for?”
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Chapter 13: The Hidden Archive
The drive back to Clara’s cottage was heavy with silence. The rusted metal box sat on her lap, its weight far greater than its physical mass. Hensley’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set in a grim line. Neither of them spoke until they pulled into the gravel driveway and the engine cut off.
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Chapter 14: The Origins of Jonathan Blackthorn
Clara sat at her desk, the faint glow of her laptop illuminating the room as she delved into Jonathan Blackthorn’s past. The name had been whispered through the corridors of academia, tied to pioneering experiments in alternative energy decades before his family’s untimely demise. What she uncovered only deepened the mystery.
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Chapter 15: Wexler’s Betrayal
Further digging led Clara to a name she hadn’t expected to find again: Dr. Malcolm Wexler. The same man who had designed the Blackthorn vault had once been Jonathan’s closest collaborator. But in 1995, their partnership ended abruptly under mysterious circumstances. A memo from Jonathan’s archive hinted at the cause:
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