McCredited: UTM November 2025

Lily’s breath steamed in the cool, crisp air as the sunrise stretched golden hands across the landscape, casting long, frost-glistening shadows through the village. She opened the small shop cum Post Office to the occasional early birds on their way to work, and laid out the display of daily newspapers in the warm light through the window. 
A loud and powerful motorbike made her look up. The rider, a stranger, parked opposite and approached the shop, his body blocking the sunlight through the door. She busied herself arranging jars of honey and handmade candles with her delicate hands. 
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice deep and smooth like a cello. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
She looked up. He was tall. His thick, dark hair was disturbed by wearing a helmet. His blue eyes seemed to lock on to her gaze, intelligent and enquiring. His clothes – some kind of elegant, earth-toned motorcycle wear with pockets and patches – looked exclusive and expensive. He carried a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, its weight pulling at his posture. His lower legs and boots were dust coated.
Lily was suddenly aware she hadn’t replied. 
“Not at all,” she managed, stepping behind the shop counter, her voice steadier than she felt. “How can I help you?”
“I’ll be needing a few basics: bread and butter, eggs and milk.”
“We have those. Coffee or tea for your milk?”
“Ah, I’m afraid I’m a bit of a purist. I drink only a pure brand of Assam tea.” He patted the satchel by his hip. “Also . . . I wonder if you could tell me how to get to Corben Cottage from here. My GPS is being difficult.”
“Corben Cottage? Are you sure? I think it’s been empty for about a year.”
“Oh? Well, I’ve rented it. Indefinitely. I’m researching a novel and it seemed like the perfect getaway.” 
“It’s certainly very quiet out there. So you’re a writer . . . ?”