1. Chapter One

Rose

The crisp autumn air fills my lungs as I step outside my cozy cottage to survey my little piece of the world. It's been three months since I bought this place in the solitude of these woods. I've never been happier.

After years of living my life in the spotlight, my privacy sold to the highest bidder, I'd had enough. I escaped my past to live life on my own terms. When I found this cottage, tucked away in a remote forest several hours from the nearest big city, it felt like coming home.

Out here there are no prying eyes, no cameras tracking my every move. I can breathe freely, think my own thoughts, and just… be.

Since I moved here with my few belongings, I've spent my days exploring the forest, sketching, painting the scenery, and reconnecting with a part of myself I thought I'd lost forever. Who am I kidding? I'm not reconnecting with myself. I'm discovering who I am for the first time.

Grabbing one last deep breath of fresh air, I return to the main room of my cottage. This cozy space is my kitchen, living room, dining room, and art studio.

The cottage, though old, has all the modern conveniences, though it's over a hundred years old. Well, I guess the word modern is relative. Many amenities have been added by previous owners over the decades. The kitchen appliances are at that age where I'm waiting for them to play out any minute, and the furniture spans the decades from the sixties to present day. My cozy cottage even has Wi-Fi, though it's mercurial and can't always be counted on.

When my gaze falls on an unfinished oil painting propped on an easel in the corner, inspiration strikes.

I come to my senses hours later, after making improvements to the painting of a meadow I discovered about a mile north of here. As I rub my aching shoulders, I examine the cottage walls, covered in mysterious paintings and sketches. I wonder, as I have dozens of times since the first time I toured the house, who created these magical works of art? They aren't signed, though they're obviously originals.

One painting, in particular, catches my eye, a whimsical forest scene filled with tiny details that make me smile. I study the brushstrokes, the play of light and shadow, and the unconventional use of color that works perfectly with the subject matter. So much talent and skill are required to produce such a work.

My own painting seems clumsy, almost childish by comparison. Will I ever develop an artistic gift like this?

I return to my work in progress, blending shades of emerald and jade for the forest canopy. The solitude here is a balm for old wounds. I lived in the city for a few months while I searched for the perfect place to live. There were eyes everywhere—judgmental eyes that knew my every childhood secret.

Growing up, my family belonged to an ultra-conservative church that believed in strict discipline and rigid morality. In order to gain converts and, I now realize, money, my parents volunteered our lives for a reality show. It broadcast our daily struggles and triumphs to millions of viewers.

At first, I enjoyed the attention, the fame, and what I perceived as the adulation of strangers. But as I grew older, their gazes became intrusive, suffocating. I had no privacy, no life of my own. My every misstep and mistake was dissected for the entertainment of the masses.

By the time I escaped the family, I"d come to despise the spotlight. I hid out and did everything I could to avoid recognition while I searched for this perfect, isolated cottage. It's only here, far from civilization, that I can shed the masks I"ve worn for so long, where I can simply be me.

"Take a break, Rose," I remind myself. In my family, idle hands were the devil's workshop. Perhaps that's why it's hard for me to remember to stop and smell the roses. And maybe it's why I relish my breaks.

After stepping out onto the wide front porch, which is half as large as the cottage itself, I inventory my surroundings.

The forest is lush and vibrant, filled with wonders. Dappled sunlight filters through the canopy of emerald and jade evergreens, the same colors I'm creating in my painting.

I've mapped trails leading to hidden glens, babbling creeks, and misty waterfalls. Places of quiet magic I escape to when solitude calls.

Funny, usually when I return home from my explorations, I look around to see the spot I just visited painted on one of my cottage walls. Whoever made that art is a kindred spirit.

After returning to my easel, my gaze drifts to the paintings adorning the walls, mysterious and fantastical, hinting at magic in the dappled glades and misty hollows. I still wonder about the artist who left them behind, but after months in this place, my curiosity has faded. The cottage and all within are mine now, to do with as I please.

My past can't touch me here. I'm free in a way I've never known.