The Project || 18+ [ON HOLD]

2.

Driving through the heart of Willow Creek feels like I've stepped into a Hallmark movie. Quaint shops line the main street, their windows adorned with hand-painted signs and rustic decor.

I notice a bakery first, its aroma of baking bread filling the air. Then there's a flower shop, a rainbow of flowers tumbling out onto the sidewalk. And I can't miss the old bookshop. I make a mental note to explore it later. Each building has its own charm, its own slice of Southern coziness that makes it hard not to smile.

But it's not just the buildings that catch my eye. It's the people. Folks wave as I pass by, smiles on their faces, genuine and warm. Kids ride their bikes down the sidewalk, their laughter ringing out. It's the kind of place that feels like home, even if you've never set foot here before.

I drive past a wooden bridge that arches gracefully over a creek. This must be the Willow Creek that gives the town its name. The water below is clear and calm, a peaceful sight that makes me take a deep breath, savoring the moment.

Over the bridge, set away from the rest of the town, is a bar. Its sign reads "Whiskey Creek Bar & Grill". And even from a distance, it has an air of rustic allure. I can almost hear the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation.

I continue on my journey, finally pulling into the parking lot of the local hardware store. It's a modest building, but hopefully, it has everything I'll need for my project. There's a sign on the door that proudly displays it's a family-owned business. As I step inside, the sound of a bell rings, light and welcoming.

"Morning, ma'am. First time in Willow Creek?" The clerk, a round man with laugh lines framing his eyes, leans on the counter.

His guess catches me off guard, and I chuckle, "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, around here, we know our own. Makes it easy to spot a newcomer." His eyes crinkle behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he grins.

I grin back. "Well, you're not wrong. Just moved in. Bought a house that needs a bit of love."

"Would that be the old Johnson place on Maple Lane?" His eyes light up at the mention.

"I don't know if it's the old Johnson place, but it is on Maple Lane. How did you know?"

"Ah, that house has been waiting for someone to bring it back to life. Glad to hear it's in good hands now. Can't wait to see it restored to its former glory. It's been empty for close to a decade now. Mr. Johnson passed, and Mrs. Johnson followed shortly after. Their kids moved to the city. None of them were interested in the old place. It's a shame, really."

"That is a shame," I agree.

"Well, if you need help finding anything, just holler. We're all about neighborly help around here."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

I wander the aisles, my hands grazing over the rough texture of wooden planks, the cool smoothness of paint cans. There's a certain comfort in a hardware store, something that speaks to the part of me that loves to fix and create. I grab a cart and start making my way through the store, my list growing longer with each step.