Episode 17) Spark of the Haven

Spark of the Haven is a captivating three-part Midnight’s Shadow romance by Lila Sterling. When Mira Holt returns to Havenridge to save her mother’s pottery studio from a developer’s grasp, a reunion with her lost love, Julian Vale, reignites buried sparks. As they shape clay and battle for their town’s heart, unearthed letters and a vibrant fair weave their past into a hopeful future. Will their love and community triumph? Join us for a heartfelt tale of second chances, legacy, and love, set amid the kilns of Havenridge. Subscribe and share with #MidnightsShadow.

• second-chance romance
• small-town love story
• Harlequin romance
• pottery romance
• emotional audiobook
• family legacy romance
• romantic drama podcast
• artisan love story
• Havenridge romance
• Mira Holt romance
• Julian Vale story
• Lila Sterling romance
• Midnight’s Shadow podcast
• community romance
• heartfelt fiction

Thank you for joining us under the starlit glow of Midnight’s Shadow. We hope this tale of heartfelt connections, written by Lila Sterling, warmed your heart and stirred your dreams. If you loved wandering the flower-draped ridges or riverside paths of our stories, share your thoughts with us on social media using #MidnightsShadow, or leave a review on your favorite podcast platform. Subscribe now to never miss a chapter of love, trust, and triumph. Until next time, let the shadows of midnight guide you to new stories of the heart. Sweet dreams.
“relationships,” “second-chance love,” “small-town stories,” “emotional drama,” “fiction podcast,” “love stories,” “serialized fiction,” “romantic drama.”

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Spark of the Haven Part one by Leela Stirling, Chapter one,
The Potter's Return. The train pulled into Haven Ridge as
dawn cast a soft amber glow over the hills. Mayra
Holt stepped onto the platform, her scarf fluttering in the
crisp breeze scented with clay and pine. At thirty, she
hadn't returned in eight years, not since she'd left for

(00:22):
Boston to chase a career in ceramic art. A lawyer's
letter had drawn her back Holt's pottery studio. Her mother's
workshop was sinking under unpaid debts, and a developer, Victor Lang,
aimed to turn it into a luxury condo complex. Mayra
planned to evaluate the studio, sell it, and returned to
her city life. But the sight of the studio's stone facade,

(00:44):
warm in the morning light, stirred a pang of memory.
This was where her mother, Lena, had taught her to
shape clay, her hands guiding Myra's to mold earth into art.
Mayra pushed open the studio's door, the bell jingling softly. Inside,
elves held pottery vases, bowls, mugs in hues of cobalt,
terra cotta, and sage, their surfaces glazed and smooth. The

(01:07):
air hummed with the faint hum of a potter's wheel,
but dust coated the tools, and a kiln flickered weakly.
Mayra traced a finger over a cobalt vase, Memories flooding back,
Lena's gentle smile, the spin of the wheel, the scent
of wet clay. Now, with Lena gone, the studio felt
like a cracked vessel. Maya a holt. A voice called
deep and steady, like the turn of a wheel. She

(01:30):
turned to see a man at a work bench shaping
a clay bowl. His dark hair was flecked with dust,
and his flannel shirt was smudged with glaze. Her breath
caught Julian Veil, her first love, who'd vanished from her
life at twenty two. Without a word, Julian, she said,
her voice tight, what are you doing here? Chapter two?
The unshaped clay. Julian set the clay down, his green

(01:54):
eyes meeting hers, calm but shadowed. Your mother kept me
on his manager after you left, he said, wiping glaze
from his hands. I've been keeping the studio running. Mayra's
jaw clenched, running you left Julian, you don't get to
claim this place. Eight years ago, they'd spent summer's shaping pottery,
dreaming of a future under Havenridge's starry skis. His sudden

(02:17):
disappearance had broken her, sending her to Boston to rebuild.
Seeing him here in her mother's studio felt like a
fresh crack in her heart. The studio in trouble, Julian said,
stepping closer, warn kilns, unpaid suppliers, and Victor Lang's circling.
I'm trying to hold it together. I'm here to sell.

(02:38):
Mayra snapped, but the words rang hollow. The studio's debts
were steep, taxes, repair costs, and the town council had
given her two months to settle them or lose the property.
Victor's condos loomed, threatening Havenridge's charm. Julian gestured to a
flickering kiln. This needs fixing to keep production going. I

(02:59):
can handle it, if you'll let me. She wanted to refuse,
but the studio's state was dire, and Julian knew its
kilns and wheels like his own hands. Fine, she said,
her voice cold. Fix what you can, but this changes nothing.
He nodded. Grabbing tools and began working. The clank of
metal filled the silence as Mayra sorded clay, her eyes

(03:22):
drifting to his steady hands. His presence was a spark
she couldn't ignore, stirring memories she'd buried by dusk. The
kiln glowed steadily, and Julian's gaze softened. Why do you
come back, Myra, he asked for mom, she said, avoiding
his eyes. This studio was her everything. Chapter three, The

(03:42):
town's clay Havenridge rallied around Mayra. The next day, Missus Carver,
the baker, brought jars of glaze pigments. Her smile warm.
Lena would be proud, she said. The florists donated dried
herbs for clay scents, and locals visited. Drawn by the
studio's earthy warmth, Mayra started a pottery workshop for kids,
Hopping to build support. The studio hummed with chatter and

(04:05):
the spin of wheels, but Victor Lang's shadow loomed. At
a town meeting, the developer stood his voice, Slick Havenridge
needs progress, condos, tourists, jobs. Holt's pottery studio is a relic.
Mayra stood, her heart pounding This studio is our heart
not your complex? The crowd cheered, but Victor's smile was sharp,

(04:25):
promising a fight. Afterward, Julian found her outside the studio,
the street lights casting a soft glow. You held your own,
he said, his tone warm. Mayra shrugged her guard up.
Why do you leave, Julian, no note nothing, His face tightened.
My sister was in trouble, addiction debts. I went to
work factories in Albany to help her. I wrote to

(04:47):
you Myra every week. I never got any letters, she said,
her voice breaking. Had her cousin Elise hidden them out
of envy. The revelation hit like a shard, and she
turned away, the studio lights blurring in her eyes. Chapter four,
The first spin in the studio, Mayra shaped a vase,
Its cobalt clay smoothed under her fingers. Julian watched his

(05:10):
hands idle. You've still got it, he said, a smile
in his voice. She spun the wheel, the clays centering
Mom taught me well. Their eyes met, and the years
seemed to soften, But the studio's debts pressed harder, and
Victor's offer loomed. Mayra planned a fundraiser at the community center.
Hopping to rally more support. Julian helped, repairing kilns and

(05:31):
crafting wooden display shelves. Their work felt like a shared rhythm,
each moves sparking memories. As they set up for the fundraiser,
their hands brushed and Mayra's pulse quickened. We're not kids anymore,
she said, stepping back. Julian nodded, but his gaze held
a spark. The center glowed that night with locals bidding
on pottery, but Victor's presence cast a chill. My offer's generous,

(05:54):
he said. Mayra's resolve hardened. She'd fight for the studio
and maybe her heart. Chapter five, the fundraiser's spark. The
haven Ridge Community Center glowed under strings of fairy lights,
its wooden beams, casting a warm ambience for the fundraiser.
To save Holt's pottery studio, Meyra Holt arranged her pottery
on display tables, cobalt vases, terracotta bowls, sage mugs, each

(06:19):
piece glazed to a soft sheen. Julian Veil's hand carved
wooden shelves etched with subtle river patterns, framed her creations.
Their collaboration a testament to their shared past. The room
buzzed with townsfolk, their voices mingling with the soft strum
of a guitarist. As bids climbed higher, Meyra's heart lifted

(06:40):
with each sail. The funds inching closer to clearing the
studio's debts, but the tax deadline, now just weeks away,
kept her tethered to reality. Julian moved through the crowd,
offering cups of mulled cider, His flannel shirt sleeves rolled up,
revealing glaze streaked forearms. His green eyes caught hers across
the room, a quiet smile sparking a warmth she tried

(07:02):
to suppress. They've been working side by side for days,
shaping clay, sanding shelves, and his steady presence was chipping
away at her resolve to keep him at a distance.
She turned to a bitter an elderly woman who admired
a terra cotta bowl. It's like Lena's work, the woman said,
her voice soft. You've got her touch Myra. Before Myra

(07:23):
could respond, Victor Lang swept in his tailored suit, stark
against the crowd's cozy knits. The room hushed slightly as
he approached his smile calculated, Miss Holt, he said, gesturing
to the pottery. Impressive turnout. But my company can buy
the studio outright, turn it into a cultural display in
our condos. You'd be debt free with profit. Mayra's stomach twisted.

(07:48):
This studio isn't a showcase. It's Havenridge's heart. Her voice carried,
and murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Victor's eyes narrowed,
but his smile held heart does a pay bills. My
offer's open for now. He glided away, leaving a chill
in his wake. Julian appeared at Myra's side, his shoulder

(08:08):
brushing hers. He's worried, he said, quietly. You're rallying the town.
His voice steadied her, but their brief touch sent a
spark through her, stirring memories of Starlit summers. She stepped back,
focusing on the bids, but his presence glowed like a
kiln she couldn't douse. By night's end, the fundraiser had
raised nearly half the needed funds. As they packed up,
Julian helped stack shelves, his hands. Careful, you're doing it, Myra,

(08:32):
he said. Lena would be proud her throat tightened, the
past and present shaping together. Chapter six, The Starlet Confession.
The stars shimmered over Havenridge, their light dancing on the river.
Outside Holt's pottery studio, Mayra sat on a riverside bench.
The fundraiser's success tempered by Victor's offer and the sting

(08:52):
of Julian's lost letters. Had her cousin Elise really hidden
them out of envy? The thought burned and she needed answers.
The studio's door creaked, and Julian stepped out, his breath
visible in the cool night air. Knew you'd be here,
he said, sitting beside her, leaving a careful distance. The
river's murmur filled the silence, and the scent of clay

(09:13):
clung to him, grounding her. Why didn't you try harder,
Mayra asked, her voice. Raw. Letters are one thing, Julian,
but you could have called found me. He looked at
the stars, his jaw tight. I tried, Mayra once, when
I was back for a week. Elise said, you moved on,
that you were thriving in Boston. I didn't want to

(09:33):
pull you back. His voice was heavy with regret. Mayra's
heart sank. Elise always jealous of her bond with Julian
had sabotaged them. She lied, Mayrah whispered the betrayal sharp.
I waited for you, Julian for months. I thought you'd
forgotten me. His eyes met hers pained, I'm sorry. I

(09:54):
thought letting you go was right. You were meant for
more than Havenridge. He reached for her hand, his touched
tentative warm from handling clay. She didn't pull away, the
contact stirring memories of their hands entwined by the studio's wheel.
I wanted you, not Boston, she said, her voice breaking.
The admission hung between them, fragile as wet clay. I

(10:15):
wrote every week, Myra, Julian said, every letter was for you.
His honesty cracked her defenses, and she felt the pull
of their past like a spark catching fire, But fear
held her back. She couldn't risk her heart again. She
stood the stars blurring in her eyes and walked back
to the studio, the weight of truth and trust glowing
within her. Chapter seven, The Wheel's Rhythm. The studio hummed

(10:38):
with activity as Myra and Julian prepared for the haven
Ridge Fare, their best chance to save Holt's pottery studio,
they crafted a ceramic mural for the fair's centerpiece, a
wide panel glazed in cobalt and sage etched with river motifs.
Myra's hands guided the clay. The wheels hum a steady rhythm,
while Julian carved wooden shelves his focus intents. Their work

(11:00):
felt like a dance, each move complimenting the other, but
the air crackled with unspoken tension. As they shaped the mural,
a smear of clay landed on Mayra's cheek. She laughed,
brushing it off, but Julian reached out, wiping it gently
with his thumb. Careful, he said, his voice husky. Their
faces inches apart. Her pulse raced, and she teased, still messy,

(11:23):
breaking the moment, her cheeks flushed. You're perfect, Julian said,
his smile soft. The words hit her, stirring memories of
late night's shaping pottery together, Dreaming of a shared future.
She turned to the wheel, focusing on the clay, but
her heart pounded. They worked late, the mural taking shape
under the studio's warm lights. Julian shared stories of his

(11:43):
time in Albany, grueling factory shifts, lonely nights, and Mayra listened,
drawn to his vulnerability. Why do you come back, she asked,
pausing her work for the studio. He said, for Lena
and for you, even if I didn't admit it. Then
his honesty warmed her, fraying the walls she'd built, but
fear lingered she couldn't fall again, not with the studio's

(12:05):
fate and her heart at stake. As they glazed the mural,
their hands brushed, and Mayra felt a spark she couldn't extinguish.
Chapter eight, the Town's stand. The next morning, Havenridge buzzed
with purpose. Mayra and Julian organized an open house at
the studio, inviting the town to see its value. Artisans
demonstrated pottery, making, kids shaped mugs, and Missus Carver brought scones.

(12:30):
The community's support was a warm glow, but Victor Lang's
smear campaign cast a shadow. Fliers claimed the studio's kilns
were a safety hazard. Mayra's anger flared, but Julian's calm
presence steadied her. We'll prove them wrong, he said, his
hand brushing hers as they set up displays. The open
house drew a crowd with townsfolk. Marveling at Mayra's pottery

(12:53):
and Julian's shelves. A petition to declare the studio a
historic site gained signatures, and the mayor prompt to push
it through. Victor arrived, his presence a cold draft. This
is charming, he said, his tone sharp. But my condos
will bring progress. You're delaying the inevitable. Mayra stood tall.

(13:13):
This studio is our future, not your prophet. The crowd cheered,
and Julian's proud smile warmed her. As the day ended,
they stood in the studio adjusting a pottery display. Their
hands met, and for a moment Mayra didn't pull away.
The air felt charged, their faces close, but a child's
laugh broke the spell. Mayra stepped back, her heart racing.
The fair was days away, their last chance to save

(13:36):
the studio and maybe their love. Chapter nine, The haven
Ridge Fair. The haven Ridge Fair transformed the town into
a vibrant mosaic, its meadows aglow with lanterns, the scent
of pine and warm bread mingling in the crisp air,
and the hum of fiddles weaving through the night. Holt's
pottery studio stood as the fair's heart, its doors flung

(13:57):
open shelves radiant with Mayra Holt's creations, cobalt vases, terra
cotta bowls, sage mugs, each piece glazed to a soft sheen.
Julian Veil's hand carved wooden shelves etched with river patterns,
framed her work. Their collaboration. A beacon of Hope townsfolk
and visitors from neighboring towns crowded the studio, bidding on

(14:19):
pottery and donating to save it from Victor Lang's luxury
condo plans. Mayra's heart swelled with each sail, the funds
nearing the amount needed to clear the studio's debts. With
the tax deadline just days away, Mayra adjusted a sage mug,
its clay catching the lantern light, her fingers lingering on
the smooth surface. Julian moved beside her, his flannel shirt

(14:43):
dusted with glaze, his green eyes bright with pride. This
place is alive again, he said, his voice warm. You
did this, Myra. His words kindled a spark in her,
but the pressure of the deadline kept her grounded. Victor
Lang appeared at the studio's entrance, his tail Bard's suit
stark against the fair's rustic charm. He approached, his smile sharp,

(15:05):
Miss Holt, he said, eyeing the pottery a valiant effort,
But my condos will bring jobs, progress, sell now, and
I'll feature your work in our displays. Mayra's resolve hardened.
This studio is Havenridge's soul, not your showcase. Her voice
rang out, and the crowd murmured support. Julian stepped closer,
his present steady, She's right, he said, This town chooses

(15:29):
its heart over your profit. Victor's eyes narrowed, but he
left without a word, his footsteps fatting into the fair's
hum As dusk fell, the mayor took the stage, her
voice clear, thanks to your generosity, Holt's pottery studio has
raised enough to clear its debts, and our petition has
made it a historic site. The crowd erupted in cheers,
and Mayra's eyes stung with relief. Julian's hand found hers,

(15:53):
his touch a quiet promise. They joined the fair's dance,
their steps close under the lanterns, the music weaving their
passed and present into a single radiant moment. Word count
Tilda one one hundred seventy five, Chapter ten, The Letters
Unearthed the fair's triumph lingered in Mayra's mind as she
climbed the studio's attic stairs. The next evening, a lantern

(16:16):
casting shadows on the dusty beams. Julian's confession about the
letters he'd sent hidden by her cousin Elise, had left
her restless, needing proof. Dust swirled in the lantern's light.
As she sifted through her mother Leana's belongings in a
wooden box tucked behind old clay molds. She found them.
A bundle of envelopes, edges yellowed, addressed to her in

(16:37):
Julian's steady handwriting. Her heart pounded as she opened one,
the paper crinkling, Mayra, I'm sorry I left. My sister's
troubles took me away, but you're my light. I love
you always will. Please write back. Each letter echoed the
same love, regret, hope. Tears blurred her vision as she
read the words, melting eight years of pain. Elise's betrayal

(17:01):
cut deep, but Julian's truth was a warm spark, rekindling
her trust. She found him by the river. The waters
rush a soft backdrop to the night I found them,
she said, holding up the letters. Her voice trembling. Julian's
eyes widened and he stepped closer, his breath catching. What
did they say? He asked, his voice low, that you

(17:23):
loved me. She said, her throat tight, that you never forgot.
She handed him a letter and he read it silently,
his jaw clenching. Elise told me you moved on. He said,
I thought I was doing right by letting you go.
She lied. Mayra whispered, I waited for you. The admission
hung between them, heavy with lost years. Julian reached for

(17:45):
her hand, his touch warm and steady. I'm here now, Myra,
I'm not leaving again. She didn't pull away, letting his
words shape her doubts, her heart glowing toward forgiveness. Word
count Tilda one one hundred seventy five, Chapter eleven, The
Heart's Fire. The studio hummed with quiet energy as Mayra

(18:05):
and Julian crafted pottery for a community exhibition. The wheels
hum a steady rhythm. Their hands moved in sink, shaping
clay and glazing surfaces, the air thick with the scent
of earth and glaze. Mayra's fingers brushed Julian as they
adjusted a vase and a spark shot through her, warm
and undeniable. I was so angry, she admitted, pausing her work.

(18:27):
But I missed you Julian. Every day he set a
mold down, his green eyes soft but intense. I missed
you too. Every night in Albany, I saw you in
the clay I shaped. He stepped closer, the space between
them shrinking. I love you, Myra. I never stopped. Her breath,
caught the weight of eight years, fatting under his gaze.

(18:48):
She wanted to guard her heart, but his truth burned
through her doubts. They walked to the river bank, the
maple trees branches swaying in the breeze under their canopy.
Mayra kissed him, her lips meeting his with a war
that felt like home. His arms wrapped around her, steady
and sure, and the rivers rush echoed their pulse. I
love you too, she whispered, the words of flame binding them.

(19:11):
They sat by the water, planning the studio's future workshops fairs,
a hub for Havenridge's artisans. Julian's hand stayed in hers,
a vow of partnership. For the first time, Myra saw
not just the studio's survival, but a life with him.
Radiant and strong word count Tilda one one hundred seventy five,

(19:32):
Chapter twelve, The Haven's Spark. Weeks later, Holt's pottery studio
thrived as Havenridge's Heart, its shelves alive with Myra's creations,
cobalt vases, terra cotta bulls, sage mugs displayed on Julian's
carved shelves. The studio buzzed with activity, children shaping pottery,
locals crafting gifts. The town council had cemented its status

(19:56):
as a historic site safe from Victor Lang's plans, and
visit flocked from neighboring towns to see the reborn space.
Mayra stood in the studio watching a girl shape her
first mug, her smile mirroring Lana's. The sight warmed her.
Her mother's legacy was alive. Julian joined her, his flannel
shirt dusted with glaze, his smile soft. It's beautiful, isn't it?

(20:20):
He said, his arm brushing hers. She leaned into him,
nodding better than I dreamed. They walked to a riverside maple,
its branches heavy with starlight. Together they shaped a joint
vase on a portable wheel, their hands guiding the clay
into a piece swirled with river hues. Each curve felt
like a promise, their love glowing in every line. As

(20:41):
the moon rose, casting a silver glow over the studio.
Mayra turned to Julian, What now, she asked, her voice soft.
He took her hand, his smile warm. We keep shaping together.
Havenridge embraced them, not just a town, but a vow
of forever, their love a spark that held it all together.