The hearth in Myra's small, cozy cottage held a crackling fire that bathed the room in a comforting light. Myra sat beside her grandmother’s bedside, gently coaxing her to take another spoonful of the bitter-smelling medicine Gareth had provided. Her grandmother, thankfully, was showing significant improvement after the sudden illness that had gripped her in recent days, but still required constant care and attention.

  Despite her focus on her grandmother’s well-being, Myra’s thoughts kept drifting back to Freya. The memory of the cloaked figure in the vilge square lingered in her mind, a persistent flicker of doubt that she couldn’t entirely dismiss. She wondered if it truly had been her imagination, or if, impossibly, Freya had been there. A wave of longing washed over her, a yearning for the connection they had shared, the intimacy that now felt so distant.

  She gnced towards the window, the sound of the heavy rain drumming against the gss a somber backdrop to her thoughts. A deep sense of unease settled in her stomach. She hoped Freya was safe, wherever she was. The image of the cloaked figure disappearing into the night, coupled with her own unexpined absence, filled Myra with a growing disquiet. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, and the distance between herself and Freya felt vast and uncertain. Her responsibility to her grandmother kept her rooted to the cottage, but her heart ached with unspoken questions and a growing concern for the enigmatic woman who had captured her heart.

  “Grandma, how are you feeling now?” Myra asked softly, gently smoothing a stray strand of silver hair from her grandmother’s forehead.

  The old woman smiled weakly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Much better, my dear. Thanks to your wonderful care. You’ve been a true blessing, Myra.”

  Myra returned the smile, but her heart wasn’t fully in it. As she reached to pce the damp sponge back on the small pte beside the bed, her hand trembled, and the pte slipped from her grasp, cttering onto the wooden floor. It wasn’t the first time her focus had wavered that morning. Her grandmother’s sharp eyes, though weakened by illness, didn’t miss Myra’s distraction. “Myra, child,” she said gently, her voice ced with concern, “your mind seems to be elsewhere. What troubles you, my dear?”

  Myra sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the edge of her apron. “It’s… it’s Freya, Grandma,” she confessed quietly. “I haven’t seen her in a few days now. I was… hoping to see her again soon.” A wistful expression crossed her face as she thought of the antique shop and the unexpected connection she had found there.

  Her grandmother, who had always possessed a keen understanding of Myra’s heart, nodded slowly. She had sensed the young woman’s increasing affection for the mysterious proprietor of the antique shop. A thoughtful silence hung in the air, broken only by the drumming of the rain against the windowpanes. Finally, her grandmother spoke, her voice gentle but hesitant. “Well, my dear… you’ve been so diligent in caring for me. I am feeling much stronger now. Perhaps… perhaps you could go tomorrow, if the rain lets up. But please, Myra, don’t go out in this weather.” A subtle reluctance lingered in her grandmother’s tone, a hint of unspoken reservations about Myra’s growing attachment to the mysterious Freya.

  A hopeful light flickered in Myra’s eyes at her grandmother’s hesitant permission. “Oh, Grandma, would you truly be alright?” she asked, her voice filled with concern but also a barely concealed eagerness. “I wouldn’t want to leave you if you still need me.” A part of her longed to rush out into the rain that very moment, desperate to see Freya, but her ingrained sense of responsibility towards her grandmother held her back. She waited for her grandmother’s reassurance, her heart caught between duty and desire.

  Her grandmother’s gaze, though aged, was sharp and knowing. She reached out a frail hand and gently took Myra’s. “My dear,” she said softly, her voice carrying a depth of wisdom, “this feeling you have for Freya… is it truly love?” Her eyes searched Myra’s, seeking an honest answer to a question that y at the heart of Myra’s recent preoccupation.

  Myra’s heart skipped a beat at the directness of the question. She looked down at her grandmother’s hand in hers, a flood of emotions – tenderness, longing, a touch of fear – washing over her. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze, her eyes meeting her grandmother’s with a newfound crity and conviction. “Yes, Grandma,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering. “Yes, I truly do love Freya.” The words, spoken aloud, solidified the feelings that had been blossoming in her heart, a quiet decration of a love that had taken her by surprise but now felt undeniably real.

  “And does she love you, child?” her grandmother asked, her voice gentle but tinged with a concern that creased her brow. This was the question that truly weighed on her heart, the unspoken worry about the unknown woman who had so quickly captured Myra’s affections.

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Myra’s face, a shadow momentarily dimming the light in her eyes. She thought of Freya’s tender embraces, her whispered words, the intense intimacy they had shared. Yet, the memory of Freya’s sudden unease, her guarded reaction to the letter, and her subsequent silence also lingered. “I… I believe so, Grandma,” Myra replied, her voice softer now, a hint of doubt creeping in. “I felt… a connection. A strong one. But… I haven’t seen her since…” The unspoken worry hung in the air between them, the fragility of this new love overshadowed by the uncertainty of Freya’s feelings and her mysterious absence.

  The relentless drumming of the rain against the cottage roof seemed to echo the frantic beat of Myra’s heart. She knelt beside her grandmother’s bed, taking the frail hand in both of hers, her gaze earnest and pleading. “Grandma,” she began, her voice thick with emotion, “you know how much I love you. You’re the most important person in my life.” A tremor ran through her as she spoke.

  “But right now…” Myra continued, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes welling with tears, “my heart feels so heavy, Grandma. There’s this… this ache inside, and I don’t understand it. I need to see Freya. I need to know if she’s alright, if…” She swallowed hard, unable to articute the fears that gnawed at her.

  Csping her grandmother’s hand tighter, Myra’s voice rose with a desperate urgency. “Please, Grandma. Please let me go now. I know the rain is relentless, but I can’t stay here any longer with this… this feeling.” Her heart felt as if it were physically breaking, a sharp, inexplicable pain that demanded answers, demanded to be near Freya.

  The image of Freya, her tender touch, her passionate kisses, fshed through Myra’s mind, followed by the unsettling memory of the cloaked figure disappearing in the vilge. A knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach, a premonition that something was terribly wrong. The comforting warmth of her grandmother’s presence couldn’t soothe the growing ache of longing and worry that consumed her.

  “I need to know, Grandma,” Myra pleaded, tears now streaming down her face. “I need to see Freya. Please… please understand.” The unspoken promise of tomorrow felt too far away, the weight in her heart too heavy to bear for another moment. The sudden, overwhelming need to be near Freya, to seek reassurance and understanding, eclipsed everything else.

  A deep sigh escaped her grandmother’s lips, her aged face etched with concern as she looked at Myra’s tear-streaked face. She could see the genuine anguish in her granddaughter’s eyes, the desperate need that transcended the wild weather outside. After a long moment of contemption, she finally spoke, her voice soft and filled with a motherly worry. “Oh, my dear child… my heart aches for you. Go then, Myra. Go to Freya, if you must. But please, promise me you will be careful. The night is treacherous, and the storm shows no signs of letting up.” Her reluctance was clear, but her love for Myra and her understanding of the torment she was experiencing ultimately outweighed her desire to keep her safe at home.

  Myra pressed a tender kiss to her grandmother’s forehead, her heart overflowing with gratitude for her understanding. Without another word, she pulled her cloak tightly around herself and stepped out into the raging storm. The rain shed against her face, the wind whipping at her cloak, but she barely noticed. Her heart felt like it was being ripped apart by an invisible force, a raw, aching pain that propelled her forward with desperate urgency.

  She hurried along the muddy path towards the antique shop, her breath catching in her throat with a mixture of fear and a fragile hope. She longed to expin her absence to Freya, to reassure her that she hadn’t intentionally stayed away. A deep-seated belief, born from the intensity of their shared moments, whispered in her heart that Freya would understand, that she would be there, waiting, just as Myra now desperately needed her to be. The storm raged around her, but Myra’s focus remained fixed on the distant silhouette of the antique shop, a beacon in the tumultuous night.