The old signboard of Ashgrave Village creaked in the wind as Lucas Gray drove past it, the tires of his car crunching over the gravel path. The road stretched ahead like a scar through the mist-covered woods, and though it was only midday, the clouds hung heavy and gray in the sky, casting an eerie gloom over the sleepy village.
It had been 20 years since Lucas set foot in Ashgrave, yet everything looked the same — as if time itself had been too afraid to move. The crooked fences, ancient trees, and weathered rooftops were untouched, though the air now carried a heavy stillness that pressed against his skin.
As he drove through the narrow lanes, he noticed heads turning.
Old men paused their card games on porches, murmuring behind weathered hands. Women carrying baskets of herbs and firewood stopped mid-step, their eyes lingering on him a second too long. The children, usually chasing one another through the muddy paths, stood in clusters, watching in silence.
Lucas felt the weight of a thousand unspoken words in those stares.
He lowered his window slightly and caught fragments of hushed conversations.
"That's Benjamin's boy…"
"The cursed bloodline."
"Another one for the bridge, perhaps."
He gritted his teeth and pushed the car faster toward his family's old house. His father's death still hung like a shroud over the village, though no one had dared speak openly about it.
Not yet.
When Lucas finally pulled into the overgrown driveway, the house stood waiting like a long-forgotten ghost — its windows dark, paint peeling, and the front porch leaning with age.
But there was life inside.
The door swung open before he could knock, and a familiar face grinned back at him.
Liam Carter.
Lucas's oldest friend. Tall and wiry, with dark hair falling over his glasses, and a constant air of curiosity clinging to him like a second skin.
"About time, man," Liam called out, waving him inside. "I thought you got cold feet."
Lucas allowed himself a smirk. "Had to remind myself what I'm walking into."
Liam clapped him on the shoulder as they entered the house, the floorboards groaning beneath their steps.
"I've been here two days already," Liam said, leading him to the living room of his house, where old books and faded photographs crowded the shelves. "Been digging through your dad's stuff."
Lucas raised a brow. "Anything good?"
Liam's expression darkened slightly. "Some… weird old journals. Mentions of local legends, ghosts, and cursed bridges. The man was obsessed."
"Sounds about right," Lucas muttered.
They both chuckled, though an uneasy silence followed.
The air inside the house felt heavier.
After a while, Liam grabbed his jacket. "Come on. Let's find the others. Oliver and Noah are waiting by the old tavern."
Lucas nodded, feeling a flicker of warmth. Oliver — the hopeless romantic — and Noah, with his endless jokes, were parts of home he'd missed.
"Where are they?" Lucas asked. "them… Oliver must be sitting in front of Sophia's tea stall, probably flirting with her, and Noah must be with him." "He still hasn't changed," Lucas chuckled. As they made their way to Sophia's tea stall.
And for a reason, they don't know something is going to happen soon....