After countless jobs that wore her down to the bone, Twyla finally saved enough to leave the noise and neon of the city behind. With a heart full of dreams and a pocket lined with hard-earned cash, she returned to the countryside where her soul once found peace. She opened a quaint little café on the outskirts of a quiet village, tucked between rolling fields and whispering trees.
Life had not been kind to Twyla. Orphaned young, she was raised by her gentle grandfather, a man of soil and sky who taught her to find magic in simplicity. But when he passed away during her teenage years, she was left alone, with nothing but resilience as her inheritance. Survival pushed her into the bustling chaos of the city, where she fought to make a life for herself.
But amidst the towering buildings and clamor, her heart longed for the tender hush of wind-brushed mornings and the soft glow of stars unclouded by smog. So, when the opportunity came, she didn't hesitate. She traded skyscrapers for hills, deadlines for dew, and started anew in the land of her childhood.
Her café was not the type to draw tourists or Instagrammers. There were no overpriced lattes with fancy foam art, no minimalist concrete walls. Instead, the place breathed with the warmth of home — rustic wooden beams, flower-filled vases, the faint hum of an old radio, and the scent of seasonal fruits. Her menu, grounded in local harvests, offered comfort. Corn tea, strawberry compote, and sweet yam pastries were regular favorites. It was here, in this cozy refuge, where villagers came to gossip over mugs of sweet corn milk and freshly baked bread.
And gossip they did — especially about Andrea.
Andrea was a mystery wrapped in silk. A former city model who had suddenly reappeared in her late grandmother's house, her presence stirred the quiet village into a frenzy of curiosity. Elegant, aloof, and elusive, she seemed untouched by rural charm. Though Twyla had hoped they might bond over their shared urban past, Andrea never returned after a single, cold visit to the café. It turned out Andrea hadn't abandoned city thrills — she simply relocated them. Her house became the stage of endless speculation: strange cars, unknown men, midnight lights, and scandalous whispers. The village grapevine thrived, and Andrea was its juiciest fruit.
One particular morning, three middle-aged ladies — the triumvirate of town tales — marched into the café early, ordering sweet corn milk with the air of having something too juicy to hold in. Instead of the window seats, they chose the table nearest the counter, clearly inviting Twyla into their buzzing conversation.
"You saw him, right?"
"Oh, absolutely. He was walking around!"
"Walking? Where's his car?"
"Who cares? The point is, he was outside her gate this morning."
"The morning?! That's odd. They usually leave at dawn, not arrive."
"Exactly! But here's the twist — she didn't let him in."
Gasps followed. Twyla feigned swatting a mosquito, her ears sharpening.
Then the chimes on the door jingled. She looked up.
"W-welcome!"
The words caught in her throat. The man who entered wasn't just handsome — he was breathtaking, like a clear waterfall glinting under sunlight. Every movement he made was fluid and composed, with a presence that both soothed and unsettled.
"That's him!" one of the ladies screeched before being dragged away, mortified.
He approached the counter with long, graceful strides. Twyla, still reeling, tried to center herself.
"Can I get some corn tea?" he asked, voice smooth and low like honeyed wind.
"Huh?"
She blinked, the phrase "corn tea" scrambling itself with "iced Americano" in her overwhelmed brain. He smiled gently — a smile that made her want to run and stay at the same time.
"Corn tea, please."
Somehow, her trembling hands managed to prepare the drink. He settled into the just-vacated table — a space now sacred — and Twyla, battling nerves, took a cloth and wiped down the surface.
"Are you visiting someone here?" she asked, then winced, remembering the gossip.
"Yes, I am."
His voice carried a quiet kindness, and the look in his eyes — sincere, searching — drew her in.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she ventured.
"Sure."
"Really? Okay!"
She sat down before he could change his mind, heart thudding.
"It's rare to see new faces here," she began.
"Are you new too?"
"Not exactly. I moved here two years ago. This café is mine."
He gestured to his cup. "Your recipe?"
"My grandfather's, actually. This was his hometown. I spent my childhood here before moving to the city… then came back."
"You must love it here."
"Well… it's the countryside."
He smiled faintly, though his eyes held a shadow.
"Do you want to know why I'm here?" he asked.
"Yes. But only if you're okay sharing. In the meantime, would you try my new cookie recipe and give me your thoughts?"
He chuckled, and her heart lifted like a kite catching wind.
"I'll trade cookie reviews for honesty."
They talked until twilight draped the sky. No other customers came — as she later learned, most villagers had seen them and quietly left, letting whispers grow into full-blown rumors.
He came again the next day, just before lunch. The villagers flocked to him, eager to impress. They spoke loud, exaggerated praises about Twyla. She smiled awkwardly, silently pleading for him to ignore them. He did — gracefully, with humor and charm — and when they were alone again, she served him steak and salad.
"Eat up. You'll need the energy."
"The people here… they're wonderful."
"Well, everyone here is someone's grandkid or niece or nephew. Including Andrea."
That name passed between them like a dropped pin.
He took a bite and his eyes lit up. "This is amazing! Aren't you eating?"
"If I sit with you now, the gossip train will crash into the moon. Andrea might get the wrong idea. You should clear things up. Take this."
She handed him a basket — homemade cookies nestled with handpicked backyard flowers.
"This might soften her."
He looked at it, a flicker of sadness returning to his eyes.
"It'll work," she assured.
"Thank you."
"Now eat."
He left with the basket, and she watched the sky, praying Andrea would open her door.
At 5 PM, as rain began to pour, she spotted him at the bus shelter, alone. The basket sat beside him, soaked and limp.
He really was a waterfall — beautiful, melancholic, elusive.
Her heart ached. She walked to him, each step heavier than the last. No words passed between them when she reached him. She simply wrapped her arms around his trembling form and let the rain speak for them both.
That night, she gave him a room in her home. For two weeks, he stayed inside, silent and withdrawn. The villagers assumed he'd left. She kept his presence secret.
One morning after a storm, she found her garden in shambles. As she tried to salvage her plants, he stepped out. His hair was longer, his face shadowed by a gentle beard — yet he still looked like something out of a dream.
"Need help?"
"Oh! Yes."
They worked side by side, fingers in dirt and hearts in quiet rhythm.
"You have facial hair now."
"No razor."
"I'll get one. Or… want a haircut?"
He agreed. Later, she found herself brushing his silky hair, filled with dread about ruining it.
"Twyla, don't worry. Hair grows back."
"Don't say that!"
He chuckled. As she focused on trimming his bangs, she felt his gaze.
"What?"
"You're beautiful."
She fumbled and shrieked. He laughed louder, brighter.
"Stop talking! Stop laughing!"
Eventually, he ended up with crooked bangs held up by a clip. They both laughed until their sides hurt.
Soon, he started helping in the kitchen. He heard the villagers still gossip about Andrea, but he said nothing. She noticed his silence but never pushed.
Two months passed quietly, peacefully — and then, it was time for him to leave.
She handed him a bag of corn tea, cookies, and bread. "For the road."
"Thank you, Twyla. For everything."
"Can I have a hug?"
He stepped forward, and she wrapped him in the kind of hug that says a thousand unsaid things.
"Don't forget me, okay?"
"I won't."
"Visit anytime."
"Okay."
"Be happy."
Her voice cracked, and she blinked back tears. She let him go with a smile, believing — hoping — that somewhere beyond the horizon, her waterfall man would sparkle again.