EVELYN

The small town of Stowe, Vermont, looked like a painting brushed with autumn’s finest hues. Burnt oranges and deep crimsons draped the trees along narrow roads that curled through hills. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and fallen leaves. I had come to Stowe seeking solitude, the kind a struggling writer dreams of when words refuse to come.

My rented cabin sat at the edge of a forest, its rustic charm a promise of peace. I spent mornings staring at blank pages and afternoons wandering through town, hoping that inspiration would strike. That’s when I first saw her—Evelyn.

She was standing by the bookstore, her dark auburn hair catching the afternoon light. A simple dress swayed around her knees as if even the breeze was captivated by her presence. She had a way of standing still yet commanding attention without trying. I wanted to speak to her but hesitated, caught between awe and my usual shyness.

The second time I saw Evelyn, it was by the covered bridge that crossed the rushing river. She leaned against the wooden railing, her fingers tracing the grain of the weathered wood. I cleared my throat awkwardly, hoping she wouldn't think I was some drifter with too much time on his hands.

“You new in town?” she asked, her voice soft but sure.

“Yeah, just here for a while,” I admitted. “Trying to write a novel. Or at least that’s the excuse I tell myself.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Writing’s tricky like that. Sometimes it sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.”

We walked together along the riverbank, talking about books and places we’d never been but dreamed of visiting. She had this way of listening, as if every word mattered. There was something timeless about her, like she belonged to another era entirely.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself searching for Evelyn wherever I went. Sometimes she’d appear by the lake, other times at the local diner sipping coffee alone. She spoke little about herself, always steering the conversation toward me—my writing, my frustrations, my half-baked ideas for plots. I was falling for her, no question about it.

But there were strange things too. Odd little moments that gnawed at the edge of reason. Like how no one in town seemed to know her when I mentioned her name. Or how she would vanish without a sound, as if the breeze carried her away. I chalked it up to my writer’s imagination, always eager to weave mysteries out of nothing.

One evening, as twilight painted the sky in shades of indigo, I invited Evelyn to the cabin. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. We sat in silence for a while, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” I confessed.

Evelyn tilted her head, her eyes shimmering with something I couldn’t quite name. “Maybe you have,” she said cryptically.

The next morning, she was gone. No note, no goodbye. Just the lingering scent of wildflowers where she’d sat. I searched the town, asking anyone who’d listen if they’d seen a girl named Evelyn. But each time, I was met with puzzled expressions and polite denials.

Desperate, I went to the town’s historical society, hoping to find some record of her. That’s when I found it—a faded photograph from the 1940s. A group of townsfolk stood by the very same covered bridge where I’d first spoken to Evelyn. And there she was, unmistakably her, with that same auburn hair and timeless grace.

I stared at the caption beneath the photograph: Evelyn Harper, 1921–1947.

My breath caught in my throat. The date of her death struck me like a punch to the gut. According to the brief note, she had drowned in the river beneath the bridge on a stormy night.

I stumbled out of the building, my heart racing. The leaves rustled in the wind, whispering secrets I was too afraid to hear. Memories of our conversations flooded back—her knowing smile, her cryptic words, the way she disappeared like mist.

Evelyn wasn't just a girl I’d met in Stowe. She was a lingering echo, a phantasm tethered to a place she could never fully leave.

As I stood by the river, the wind carried her voice once more, faint but unmistakable. "Keep writing," it seemed to say, "and remember me."

And I would. Because some stories, like Evelyn, never truly end.