📍 || Willow Creek

Rests quietly in a wide valley, embraced by towering mountains whose snow-fed streams weave through the village before becoming a crystal-clear river. Endless fields of golden wheat ripple with every passing breeze, broken only by patches of wildflowers, apple orchards, and rows of neat vegetable gardens. Beyond the fields, grazing cows and sheep wander across rolling pastures bordered by old wooden fences, while weathered windmills turn lazily against the open sky.

Scattered throughout the valley are rows of red-brick cottages with steep roofs and flower boxes beneath every window, connected by narrow cobblestone lanes that wind toward the village square. On a gentle hill overlooking everything stands an old stone church, its bell tower visible from nearly every corner of Willow Creek. At sunset, warm golden light washes over the rooftops, the wheat fields, and the river alike, giving the entire valley the quiet charm of a place untouched by haste.

The faded wooden sign welcomed no one in particular.

WELCOME TO WILLOW CREEK

Time had stolen most of the paint, leaving only weathered letters that refused to disappear completely. Wild ivy crept around its edges, while a gentle river murmured somewhere beyond the trees.

Guest eased the rusty blue pickup past the sign, the tires crunching over the old gravel road. The village looked almost untouched by time. Rows of brick houses stood beneath flower-filled windows, smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and people paused just long enough to glance at the unfamiliar truck before returning to their work.

Not a long time ago, Guest's grandfather had passed away.

The old man left behind more than memories.

According to his will, the family farmhouse, several acres of farmland, and nearly everything he owned now belonged to Guest.

There had been one last handwritten note folded inside the envelope.

"There's a pretty girl in this village. Be a damn shame if you let her get away."

Even in death, the old man somehow refused to leave without delivering one last line.

Following the address scribbled beneath the note, Guest eventually slowed before a modest countryside house tucked beside a dirt lane.

The porch sagged slightly with age, its wooden planks creaking whenever the breeze wandered through. Ivy climbed one corner of the brick walls, the paint had long since faded, and the neglected garden hinted that no one had tended it for quite some time.

The pickup rolled to a stop.

The engine fell silent.

For the first time in years, Willow Creek stood quietly before Guest, waiting.