They laughed when Eleanor Hayes began digging.
At first, it was just a shallow ditch behind her small cabin, barely noticeable unless someone walked right up to it.
But within a week, it had become something deeper—something purposeful.
The second week, people were talking.
The third, they were laughing.
“Looks like Ellie’s gone crazy,” said the man in the country store, leaning back in his chair.
“She’s digging like she’s trying to bury herself.”
Another laughed.
“Or maybe she thinks she’s a groundhog now.”
The whole room burst into laughter.
Eleanor heard every word.
Dry Creek was a small town.
News traveled fast, rumors even faster.
But she didn’t respond.
She didn’t defend herself.
She didn’t argue.
She just kept digging.
Eleanor had always been different.
She wasn’t loud.
She didn’t spend her evenings at the pub or gossip.
She was a loner, living quietly on the edge of town, where the land seemed endless and the wind never stopped rustling.
But most people didn’t know—and they never asked—that Eleanor was watching her.
She was watching the land.
The animals.
The sky.
And this year, everything was wrong.
