Page 4 of Twisted Paths

I scoff. "Oh yes, I’ll take up basket weaving. That’ll really fire up the crime writing."

"You joke, but if you don’t send me a decent outline soon, I will personally enrol you in a watercolour class."

I glance at the blinking cursor, a slow, taunting pulse. Maybe he has a point. Maybe I do need a break from the usual routine.

Still, the idea of joining anything makes my skin itch. Groups mean people. People mean small talk. Small talk means pretending to care about other people’s opinions on the weather.

Not happening.

"I’ll think about it," I say.

"You’ll do it," Philip corrects.

"Fine. I’ll consider doing it."

"Unbelievable," he mutters. "Three months, Luke. Three months!"

"I heard you the first five times."

"Then start writing."

The line goes dead.

I toss my phone onto the desk and stare at the screen again. The cursor blinks. My mind stays empty.

I press my fingers into my temples, willing something—anything—to click into place. Nothing. Not even a bad idea. At this point, I’d settle for a terrible one just to have somewhere to start.

Pushing back from the desk, I stand and stretch, my spine making a series of ominous cracks. Sitting in the same position for hours on end isn’t doing me any favours. I wander to the window, staring out at the drizzle-soaked landscape beyond the glass. The fields stretch out in every direction, hedgerows marking the boundaries of farmland, a grey sky hanging heavy over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor trundles along, cutting a slow path through the mist.

It’s quiet out here. Peaceful. Which is precisely what I wanted when I left London.

And yet.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Maybe Philip is right. Maybe I do need to shake things up. Not in some dramatic, life-changing way, but enough to shift something loose in my brain. I’ve been stuck in the same cycle for months now—wake up, stare at a blank document, drink coffee, avoid writing, repeat.

I glance at my watch. Just after eleven. If I leave now, I can still make it into the village before the lunch crowd clogs up the café. Not that it gets particularly crowded, but I prefer to avoid any unnecessary small talk.

Grabbing my coat, I step outside. The air is cool and damp, the kind of Yorkshire chill that settles into your bones if you stand still for too long. I pull my hood up as I walk down the lane towards St Claire, hands stuffed into my pockets.

It’s a short walk into the village, the road lined with dry-stone walls and the occasional sheep, watching me with vague interest before going back to chewing grass. The café sits on the corner of the high street, next to the post office and the kind of shop that sells everything from milk to fishing bait.

Pushing open the door, I step inside, the warmth and smell of fresh coffee hitting me instantly. A few locals are scattered around, nursing mugs and flipping through newspapers. The barista, a woman in her fifties with a no-nonsense expression, glances up.

“Flat white?” she asks, already reaching for a cup.

“Please.” I lean against the counter, scanning the headlines of the newspapers stacked by the till. Same old doom and gloom.

Just as a I carry my cup of coffee to an empty table, the bell over the door jingles, and the peace is instantly replaced with movement and energy.

"Morning, Angela! Sorry, bit late today. My printer was playing up."

The voice is light, familiar to this place, the kind of sound that belongs in cosy little villages like this one. I glance sideways and immediately wish I hadn’t.

She’s tall, blonde, and windswept, cheeks flushed from the cold. There’s something effortless about her, like she just exists at a slightly brighter frequency than everyone else. Her coat is half-off as she rummages in her bag, her movements quick but easy, like she’s been running around all morning but still somehow has energy to spare.

She pulls out a folded piece of paper and smooths it onto the counter. “Oh, and can I put this up on the noticeboard? It’s for a new walking group I’m starting.”

I take a slow sip of coffee. Of course she is. She definitely has the energy for group outings.

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