Ep. 19) Mist Across the Moor

1. relationships
2. second-chance love
3. small-town drama
4. emotional storytelling
5. love stories
6. family legacy
7. romantic drama
8. pottery romance
9. Clayhollow
10. Clara Wren
11. Miles Tarrow
12. Lila Sterling
13. Midnight’s Shadow
14. artisan romance
15. community bonds

Shadows Before Midnight
Step into the moonlit forests of New England romance with Lila Sterling’s tales of love, legacy, and supernatural intrigue. From the pines of Maine to the hearths of small-town artisans, each story weaves passion and mystery under the stars.
© 2025 Lila Sterling. All rights reserved. Recorded under the moonlit pines of New England, September 17, 2025.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Mist A Cross the Moor Part one by Leela Stirling.
Chapter one, The home Coming. The Damp Mist clung to
the moorlands of Dunmore, Ireland. As Mara Sullivan stepped off
the bus onto the sodden path on a gray November
morning in nineteen ninety seven, at thirty three. She hadn't
returned to the remote village since her grandmother's death four

(00:21):
years ago, leaving behind the stone cottage she'd inherited. A
letter from the Dunmore Council had summoned her the cottage,
her family's legacy, faced demolition due to a proposed wind farm.
With developer Shorn Gallagher eyeing the land, Mara planned to
assess it, signed the papers and returned to her quiet
life as a folklore researcher in Dublin. But the sight

(00:43):
of the ivy clad cottage, its roof sagging, its windows fogged,
stirred a longing she'd buried. She trudged the muddy path
to the cottage, the air thick with peat and rain,
the scent grounding her inside. The room smelled of old
wool and hearth smoke. The furniture dreped with quilts from
her grandmother's time. A faded photograph of her grandmother by

(01:04):
the fireplace, her eyes twinkling, brought her ache to Mara's chest.
She'd left Dunmore to escape the isolation of those final years,
but the cottage's stillness whispered of memories she couldn't ignore.
A knock jolted her. She opened the door to find
a man, broad and weathered, his dark hair damp from
the mist, wearing a wool sweater. His green eyes held

(01:25):
a steady gaze Mara Sullivan, he asked, his voice deep
like the wind. I'm Liam O'Connor. Your grandmother hired me
to tend the sheep and land before she passed. I've
kept them up since. Mara's breath caught Liam. You were
just a lad herding the flock, she remembered him, a
wiry seventeen year old, gidding sheep, his laughter rising over

(01:47):
the moor. Now at twenty seven, he stood before her,
a man shaped by the wilds. I stayed, he said,
simply the land needed some one Chapter two, The Crumbling Haven.
Mara stepped outside with Liam, the mists swirling around them
as they surveyed the cottage. The stone walls sagged, moss

(02:07):
creeping into cracks from years of damp, and the chimney
leaned precariously. It's worse than I thought, she said, her
voice tight. The council's deadline loomed two months to repair
or lose the property, and Shan Gallagher's wind farm plans
threatened to erase her family's history. Liam pointed to a
patch of cleared heather near the sheepfold. I've been shoring

(02:28):
up the foundation, but the rains keep eroding it. We'd
need stone, new roofing and hands. His hands calloused from
years of work, gestured with quiet strength. I'm selling. Mara said,
the words bitter. I can't afford this. Her researcher's stipend
covered her Dublin flat, but the cottage's repairs would cost thousands.

(02:49):
She didn't have yet, the thought of losing it gnawed
at her. Her grandmother's refuge, her childhood retreat. Liam's jaw tightened.
Your grandmother loved this place. She'd fight for it. His
words strung a reminder of her absence. She turned away,
gazing at the moor, its grasses swaying in the fog.
I don't know how, she admitted. He stepped closer, his

(03:12):
presence warm against the chill. I can help. I've got
skills masonry, some carpentry from the village. We could start small.
See if Dunmore backs us. His office surprised her, stirring
memories of Moorland walks, his easy grin as they raised
the sheep. She nodded, reluctant, but drawn to the IDEA.
Let's try, she said, her voice softening. By afternoon, they

(03:34):
hauled stones to the foundation, Liam's steady hands gidding hers
the work felt like a rhythm from her past, and
his quiet resilience began to thaw her resolve. Chapter three,
The Villager's Echo. Dunmore rallied around Mara the next day,
its residence, bringing supplies bricks from the stone mason, wool
from the weaver. Old Missus Flaherty, the postmistress, handed her

(03:57):
a basket of soda bread. Your grand mother kept our
tailies alive, she said, her eyes kind. We'll fight for it.
The village's support warmed Mara, a contrast to her solitary
life in Dublin. She organized a community meeting at the pub,
hopping to rally more help against Shawn Gallagher's plans. The
pub buzzed with voices, the scent of peat, fire and

(04:18):
ale filling the air. Mara stood her hands trembling. The
cottage is Dunmore's history, she said, we can save it together.
The crowd nodded, but Sean strode in his suit, crisp,
his smile smooth. Progress needs sacrifice, he said, A wind
farm will bring jobs. This cottage is a relic. His
words drew murmurs, and Mara's heart sank. Afterwards, Liam found

(04:40):
her on the moor, the fog rolling in its silence heavy.
You were brave, he said, his tone warm. Why do
you leave, Mara, no word just gone. His question pierced her.
Gran was fadding, she said, her voice breaking. I couldn't
watch her go. I thought you moved on two, I wrote,
Liam said, his eyes darkening every month from the sheepfold.

(05:02):
Did you get them? She shook her head, a chill
running through her. Had her cousin Declan hidden them out
of spite. The revelation left her reeling, the past crashing
into the present. Chapter four, the first embo in the cottage,
Mara sorted tools for the repairs, the clank of metal
a steady beat. Liam worked beside her, stacking stones, his

(05:24):
focus intense. You've still got her spirit, he said, nodding
at her grip on a hammer. She smiled faintly, the
compliment easing her tension. She taught me well, she said,
her voice soft. The hands brushed as they moved stones,
and an ember flared through her warm and unexpected. She
pulled back, focusing on the work, but Liam's presence lingered,

(05:45):
a pull she couldn't ignore. They planned a harvest fare
on the moor, using the cottage as a backdrop to
raise funds. Liam lit a bonfire along the path, its
glow mirroring the mists shimmer. As they tended the fire,
their shoulders touched, and Mara's pulse quickened. We're not the
kids in Amore, she said, stepping away. Liam's smile was gentle. No,
but some fires don't die. His words hung between them,

(06:08):
a promise of something more. The more glowed that night,
with villagers bidding on wool and donatting, but Shan's shadow loomed.
My offers still open, he said, his voice cold. Mara's
determination hardened. She'd fight for the cottage and maybe her heart.
Chapter five, The harvest Fare's flame. The More glowed with

(06:28):
bonfires that evening, their flames piercing the mist. As Dunmore
gathered for the harvest fare to save the cottage, Mara
Sullivan arranged a table with her handwritten folklore tealies, stories
of ancient spirits and more legends, while Leam O'Connor hung
his hand woven wool blankets, each died with earthy tones.
The crowd buzzed with energy, the scent of soda, bread

(06:49):
and Pete's smoke mingling. As bids climbed for local crafts
and donations flowed into fund repairs. Mara's heart lifted with
each contribution, the fund's inching toward the restoration costs, but
Shan Gallagher's wind farm deadline, now six weeks away, kept
her on edge. Liam moved through the crowd, serving stout,

(07:11):
his wool sweater dusted with ash, revealing strong arms. His
green eyes met us across the moor, a quiet smile
sparking warmth she tried to suppress. They'd been working side
by side for days, hauling stones, planning events, and his
steady presence chipped at her defenses. She turned to a bidder,
an old shepherd who admired. A tale reminds me of

(07:32):
your grandmother's voice, he said, his tone gruff. You've got
her gift. Before Mara could reply, Sean approached, his tailored
coats stark against the villager's rugged clothes. The air stilled
as he spoke, Miss Sullivan, he said, gesturing to the fair,
A fine effort, but my wind farm could preserve the
cottage as a visitor center. Sell now and you'd profit.

(07:56):
Mara's stomach tightened. This isn't a center, it's Dunmore's, so
her voice carried and nods rippled through the crowd. Shawn's
smile thinned, soul doesn't pay debts. My office stands for now.
He walked off, leaving a chill. Liam stepped beside her,
his shoulder brushing hers. He's worried, he said, quietly. You're
turning the village. His touch sent a flicker through her,

(08:18):
stirring memories of their youth. She stepped back, focusing on
the bids, but his presence glowed like a fire she
couldn't douse. By night's end, the fare raised nearly half
the needed funds, and as they packed up, Liam's hands
steadied a blanket, his warmth lingering. Chapter six, The Morland Truth,

(08:39):
the More stretched Under twilight sky, It's mist weaving through
the heather. Mara sat on a stone wall. The harvest
Fair's success tempered by Shan's offer and the sting of
Liam's lost letters. Had her cousin Declan really hidden them
out of rivaly. The thought burned and she needed answers.
The crunch of boots announced Liam, his breath visible in
the damp air. Knew you'd be here, he said, sitting

(09:01):
beside her, leaving a careful space. The wind's low moan
filled the silence, and the scent of wet earth clung
to him, grounding her. Why didn't you come after me,
Mara asked, her voice roar. Letters are one thing, Liam,
but you could have found me in Dublin. He looked
at the horizon, his jaw tight. I tried once. After

(09:22):
a sheep drive, Declan said, you moved on that you
didn't want done more. I didn't want to drag you back.
His voice carried regret. Mara's heart sank. Declan, always jealous
of her bond with Liam, had sabotaged them, he lied.
She whispered the betrayal sharp I waited for you, Liam
for months. I thought you'd forgotten me. His eyes met hers,

(09:44):
pained I'm sorry. I thought letting you go was best.
You were meant for more than this moor. He reached
for her hand, his touch tentative, warm from the day's work.
She didn't pull away, the contact stirring memories of Moorland races.
I wanted you, not Dublin, she said, her voice breaking,
I wrote, Liam said every letter was for you. His
honesty cracked her walls, and she felt the pull of

(10:05):
their past like a tide drawing her in, but fear
held her back. She couldn't risk her heart again. She stood,
the more blurring in her eyes and walked back to
the cottage, the weight of truth glowing within her. Chapter seven,
The Shepherd's Rhythm. The cottage hummed with purpose as Mara
and Liam prepared for the next repair phase, Hauling stone

(10:27):
blocks to reinforce the walls. They mixed mortar and laid stones,
the rhythm of their work a steady beat against the
misty wind. Mara's hands guided the trowel, the task grounding her,
while Liam braced the walls, his focus intense. Their efforts
felt like a dance, each move complimenting the other, but
the air crackled with unspoken tension. As they set a stone,

(10:49):
a gust nearly knocked Mara off balance. Liam caught her,
his arms strong around her waist. Careful, he said, his
voice husky, Their faces inches apart. Her pulse raced, and
she teased, still clumsy, breaking the moment, her cheeks flushed.
You're steady, Liam said, his smile soft. The words hit her,
stirring memories of late nights helping her grandmother, dreaming with

(11:12):
Liam by her side. She turned to the work, focusing
on the mortar, but her heart pounded. They labored late,
the walls taking shape under the cottage's dim lights. Liam
shared tailies of his shepherd days, stormy nights, solitary vigils,
and Mara listened, drawn to his endurance. Why do you stay,
she asked, pausing her trowel for the cottage. He said,

(11:32):
for your grandmother, and for you, even if I didn't
know it. Then his honesty warmed her, fraying the walls
she'd built, but fear lingered she couldn't fall again, not
with the cottage's fate and her heart at stake. As
they cleaned up, their hands brushed, and Mara felt a
spark she couldn't extinguish. Chapter eight, The Villagers stand Next morning,

(11:54):
dunmore buzzed with resolve, Mara and Liam organized an open
house at the cottage, inviting the village to see its earth.
Shepherd's demonstrated wolf spinning, kids explored the hearth, and Missus
Flatty brought soda bread. The community's support was a warm glow,
but shawn smear campaign cast a shadow. Fliers claimed the
cottage was unsafe. Mara's anger flared, but Liam's calm presence

(12:15):
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 villagers marveling at the repairs and
Mara's tailies. A petition to declare the cottage a historic
sight gained signatures, and the mayor promised to push it through.
Sean arrived, his presence a cold draft. This is sentimental,

(12:38):
he said, his tone sharp. My wind farm will bring progress.
Your delaying the inevitable. Mara stood tall. This cottage is
our future, not your profit. The crowd cheered, and Liam's
proud smile warmed her. As the day ended, they stood
by the hearth adjusting a stone. Their hands met, and
for a moment Mara didn't pull away. The air felt charged,

(12:58):
their faces close, but a child's laugh broke the spell.
Mara stepped back, her heart racing. The festival was weeks away,
their last chance to save the cottage and maybe their love.
Chapter nine, The Mooor Festival. The Dunmore Mooor Festival transformed
the village into a vibrant haven, its hills aglow with bonfires,

(13:19):
the scent of roasted mutton and heather mingling in the
damp December air of nineteen ninety seven. The cottage stood
as the festival's centerpiece, its stone walls reinforced and hearth rekindled,
a symbol of the village's resolve. Mara Sullivan arranged a
table with her folklore scrolls, taillies of Mooor spirits and

(13:39):
ancient rites, while Liam O'Connor hung his handwoven wool tapestries,
each died with mossy greens. The crowd buzzed with energy,
the sound of fiddles and laughter carrying over the mist
as bids climbed for local crafts and donations poured into
clear the repair debts. Mara's heart swelled with each contribution,
the fund surpassing the goal. With Shorn Gallagher's wind Farm

(14:01):
deadline now just days away, Mara adjusted a scroll. It's ink,
capturing the moor's mystique, her fingers lingering on the parchment.
Liam moved beside her, his wool sweater dusted with ash,
his green eyes bright with pride. This is it, he said,
his voice warm. You brought Dunmore together. His words kindled

(14:22):
a spark in her, but the final council vote loomed
a shadow over their victory. Sean approached, his tailored coat
stark against the villager's rugged attire. The air stilled as
he spoke, Miss Sullivan, he said, gesturing to the festival
a stirring display. But my wind farm could make this
cottage a cultural hub. Sell now and you'd profit. Mara's

(14:46):
resolve hardened. This cottage isn't a hub. It's Dunmore's heart.
Her voice rang out, and the crowd murmured support. Liam
stepped closer, his presence steady. She's right, he said, This
village chooses its legacy over your profit. Sean's smile thinned,
and he walked off, his footsteps fadding into the festival's
hum As dusk fell, the mayor took the stage by

(15:08):
the cottage, her voice clear over the wind. Thanks to
your generosity, the cottage has raised enough to complete its repairs,
and the council has voted to protect it as a
historic site. The crowd erupted in cheers, and Mara's eyes
strung with relief. Liam's hand found hers, his touch a
quiet promise. They joined the festival's dance, their steps close
under the bonfares, the music weaving their past and present

(15:31):
into a single, radiant moment. Word count Tilda one, one
hundred and seventy five, Chapter ten. The letters revealed the
festival's triumph lingered in Mara's mind as she climbed the
cottage's loft stairs the next evening, A lantern casting shadows
on the timber walls. Liam's confession about the letters he'd

(15:51):
sent hidden by her cousin Declan, had left her restless,
needing proof. The loft's window framed the misty moor below,
and Mara sifted through her grandmother's old chest. In a corner,
tucked behind blankets, She found them a bundle of envelopes,
edges frayed, addressed to her in Liam's bold hand. Her
heart pounded as she opened one, the paper, crackling, Mara,

(16:14):
I'm sorry I stayed behind the sheep called, but you're
my home. 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 four years
of pain. Declan's rivaly cut deep, but Liam's truth was
a steady mist, rekindling her trust. She found him by

(16:35):
the sheepfold mending a fence, its glow casting soft shadows.
I found them, she said, holding up the letters, her
voice trembling. Liam's eyes widened and he stepped closer, his
breath catching. What did they say? He asked, his voice low,
That you loved me, She said, her throat tight, that
you never forgot. She handed him a letter, and he

(16:57):
read it silently, his jaw clenching. Decland told me you
moved on, he said, I thought I was doing right
by letting you go, he lied. Mara whispered, I waited
for you. The admission hung between them, heavy with lost years.
Liam reached for her hand, his touch warm and steady.
I'm here now, Mara. I'm not leaving again. She didn't

(17:18):
pull away, letting his words guide her doubts, her heart
lighting toward forgiveness. Word count Tilda one, one hundred and
seventy five, Chapter eleven. The Moor's light. The cottage hummed
with quiet energy as Mara and Liam prepared for the
hearth's re lighting. Hauling pete and kindling up the hill path.
Their hands moved in sink brushing as they stacked the fire,

(17:41):
The rhythm a steady beat against the misty wind. Mara's
fingers grazed Liam as they lit the first flame, and
a spark shot through her warm and undeniable. I was
so lost, she admitted, pausing her work. But I missed
you Liam. Every day. He set a log down, his
green eyes soft but intense. I missed you too. Every

(18:01):
night on the moor, I saw you in the mist.
He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking. I love you, Mara.
I never stopped. Her breath, caught the weight of four
years fadding under his gaze. She wanted to guard her heart,
but his truth burned through her doubts. They climbed to
the hill top the moor spread below like a silver
veil under the restored hearth's glow. Mara kissed him, her

(18:23):
lips meeting his with a warmth that felt like home.
His arms wrapped around her, steady and sure, and the
mists swept the moor, echoing their pulse. I love you too,
She whispered, the words of Beacon, binding them. They sat
by the fire, planning the cottage's future, story telling knights
wool markets, a hub for Dunmore's spirit. Liam's hands stayed

(18:43):
in hers, a vow of partnership. For the first time,
Mara saw not just the cottage's survival, but a life
with him. Radiant and strong. Word count Tilda one, one
hundred and seventy five, Chapter twelve, The Mist's Promise. Weeks later,
the cottage thrived with new life, its hearth glowing and

(19:04):
sheep grazing the moor, a testament to Dunmore's enduring spirit.
The loft buzzed with visitors, children hearing Tailey's local sharing songs.
The council had secured its status as a historic site
safe from Shan's plans, and travelers flocked to the restored cottage.
Mara stood by the window watching a girl tend the fire,
her smile mirroring her grandmother's. The sight warmed her. Her

(19:27):
grandmother's legacy was alive. Liam joined her, his sweater dusted
with peat, his smile soft. It's beautiful, isn't it, he said,
his arm brushing hers. She leaned into him, nodding better
than I dreamed. They walked to the hill top, the
moor spread below like a misty sea. Together, they lit
a lantern at the edge, their hands getting the wick
into a flame that danced with the fog. Each flicker

(19:49):
felt like a promise, their love glowing in every vale.
As the dawn broke, casting a pale hue over Dunmore,
Mara turned to Liam, What now, she asked, her voice soft.
He took her hand, his smile warm. We keep shining together.
Dunmore embraced them, not just a village, but a vow
of for ever their love, a mist that held it

(20:09):
all together.