September 18, 2025 • 20 mins
- second-chance romance
- small-town love story
- Harlequin romance
- pottery romance
- emotional audiobook
- family legacy romance
- romantic drama podcast
- artisan love story
- Cresthaven romance
- Mira Lane romance
- Jasper Reed story
- Lila Sterling author
- Midnight’s Shadow podcast
- community romance
- heartfelt fiction
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.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Song of the Crest Part one by Leela Stirling. Chapter one,
The Potter's Return. The train rolled into Cresthaven as dawn
brushed the sky with hues of clay and amber. Myra
Lane stepped onto the platform, her scarf catching the cool
breeze scented with earthen, clay, and pine. At thirty two,
(00:21):
she hadn't returned in nine years, not since she'd left
for Denver to pursue a career in ceramic design. A
lawyer's letter had called her back Lane's pottery studio. Her
grandmother's haven was buckling under unpaid debts, and a developer,
Rowland Pearce, planned to turn it into a luxury condo complex.
Myra intended to assess the studio, sell it, and return
(00:44):
to her city life, But the site of the studio's
stone facade, glowing softly in the morning light, stirred a
pang of memory. This was where her grandmother, Evelyn, had
taught her to shape clay her hands. Gidding Myra's to
craft vessels that held stories, Mara pushed open the studio's door,
the bell jingling faintly. Inside, shelves held pottery, terra cotta, mugs,
(01:07):
cobalt vases, ochre bowls, their curves catching the light. The
air hummed with the faint scent of wet clay, but
dust coated the wheels, and a kiln was cracked. Mara
traced a finger over cobalt vase, memories flooding back, Evelin's
warm chuckle, the spin of the wheel, the smooth glide
of clay. Now, with Evelin gone, the studio felt like
a fatting song. Mayra Lane. A voice called low and steady,
(01:30):
like the hum of a potter's wheel. She turned to
see a man at a work bench shaping a clay mug.
His chestnut hair was flecked with slip, and his flannel
shirt was smudged with glaze. Her breath caught. Jasper red,
her first love, who'd vanished from her life at twenty three.
Without a word, Jasper, she said, her voice tight, what
are you doing here? Chapter two? The shattered clay. Jasper
(01:54):
set the mug down, his green eyes meeting hers, calm
but shadowed. Your grandmother kept me on as manager after
you left, he said, wiping glaze from his hands. I've
been keeping the studio running. Myra's jaw tightened. Running you left,
Jasper you don't get to claim this place. Nine years ago,
they'd spent summers shaping clay, dreaming of a future under
(02:17):
Cresthaven's starry skis. His sudden disappearance had cracked her heart,
sending her to Denver to rebuild. Seeing him here in
her grandmother's studio felt like a fresh fracture. The studios struggling,
Jasper said, stepping closer, worn wheels, unpaid suppliers, and Roland
pierces circling. I'm trying to hold it together. I'm here
(02:39):
to sell, Myra snapped, but the words felt fragile. The
studio's debts were dire taxes, repair costs, and the town
council had given her two months to settle them or
lose the property. Roland's condos loomed, threatening Cresthaven's charm. Jasper
gestured to a cracked kiln. This needs fixing to keep
(03:00):
production going. I can handle it, if you'll let me.
She wanted to refuse, but the studio's state was grim,
and Jasper knew its wheels and glazes 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.
(03:20):
The hum of the kiln filled the silence as Myra
sorted clay blocks, her eyes drifting to his steady hands.
His presence was a spark she couldn't ignore, stirring memories
she'd buried. By dusk, the kiln was patched, and Jasper's
gaze softened. Why do you come back, Myra, he asked,
for gran she said, avoiding his eyes. This studio was
(03:41):
her everything. Chapter three, The town's clay Presthaven rallied around Myra.
The next day. Missus Harlowe, the baker, brought jars of
local honey for glaize pigments. Her smile warm. Evelyn would
be proud, she said. The florist donated dried herbs for
clay and beds, and locals visited, Drawn by the studio
earth and warmth, Myra started a pottery workshop for kids,
(04:03):
hopping to build support. The studio buzzed with chatter and
the spin of wheels, but Roland Pierce's shadow loomed. At
a town meeting, the developer stood his voice, slick, Presthaven
needs progress, condos, tourists, jobs. Lane's pottery studio is outdated.
Myra stood her heart, racing. This studio is our heart,
(04:23):
not your complex. The crowd cheered, but Roland's smile was sharp,
promising a fight. Afterward, Jasper found her outside the studio,
the street lights casting a soft glow. You were fierce,
he said, his tone warm. Myra shrugged her guard up.
Why do you leave, Jasper? No note nothing, His face tightened.
My father was in troubled debts, legal issues. I went
(04:46):
to work kilns in Boise to help him. I wrote
to you Myra every month. I never got any letters,
she said, her voice breaking. Had her cousin Leela hidden
them out of jealousy. The revelation hit like shattered clay,
and she turned away, the studio's lights blurring in her eyes.
Chapter four, the first spin in the studio, Myra shaped
(05:07):
a terra cotta mug. The wheels hum steady under her fingers.
Jasper watched his hands idle. You've still got it, he said,
a smile in his voice. She smoothed the clay the
curve soft, Gran taught me well. Their eyes met, and
the years seemed to soften. But the studio's debts pressed
harder and Rowland's offer loomed. Myra planned a fundraiser at
the community center, hopping to rally more support. Jasper helped,
(05:30):
repairing wheels and 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 Myra's
pulse quickened. We're not kids anymore, she said, stepping back.
Jasper nodded, but his gaze held a spark. The center
glowed that night with locals bidding on pottery, but Roland's
(05:50):
presence cast a chill. My offer's fair, he said. Myra's
resolve hardened. She'd fight for the studio and maybe her heart.
Chapter five, The fundraisers glow. The Cresthaven Community Center shimmered
under strings of fairy lights, its wooden rafters casting a
warm glow for the fundraiser to save Lane's pottery studio.
(06:11):
Myra Lane arranged her pottery on display tables, terra cotta mugs,
cobalt vases, ochre bowls, their curves catching the light like
earthen stars. Jasper Reed's handcrafted wooden shelves, carved with subtle
crest patterns, showcased her creations. Their collaboration a testament to
their shared past. The room buzzed with townsfolk their voices
(06:32):
mingling with the soft pluck of a guitarist. As bids
climbed higher, Myra's heart lifted 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. Jasper
moved through the crowd, offering cups of herbin fused tea.
His flannel shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing glaze streaked forearms.
(06:56):
His green eyes caught us across the room, a quiet
smile sparking a warmth she tried 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 bidder,
an elderly woman who admired an ochre bowl. It's like
Velund's work, the woman said, her voice soft. You've got
(07:19):
a touch Myra. Before Myra could respond, Roland Pears swept
in his tailored suits, stark against the crowd's cousin knits.
The room hushed slightly as he approached. His smile calculated
miss Lane, he said, just young to the pottery impressive turnout.
But my company can buy the studio outright, turn it
into a cultural exhibit in our condos. You'd be debt
(07:42):
free with profit. Myra's stomach twisted. This studio isn't a display,
it's crust the Vun's heart. Her voice carried, and murmurs
of agreement rippled through the crowd. Roland's eyes narrowed, but
his smile held heart doesn't pay bills. My offer's open
for now. He glided away, leaving a chill in his wake.
(08:03):
Jasper appeared at Myra's side, his shoulder 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 starlet 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, Jasper helped stack shelves,
(08:26):
his hands. Careful, you're doing it, Myra, he said. Ov
Lun would be proud. Her throat tightened, the past and
present humming together. Chapter six, The starlet confession. The stars
shimmered over crust the van, their light dancing on the river.
Outside Lane's pottery studio, Myra sat on a riverside bench.
(08:47):
The fundraiser's success tempered by Roland's offer and the sting
of Jasper's lost letters. Had her cousin Lulla really hidden
them out of jealousy? The thought burned and she needed answers.
The studio's door creaked, and Jasper 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
(09:10):
clung to him, grounding her. Why didn't you try harder,
Myra asked, her voice roar. Letters are one thing, Jasper,
but you'd stuff called found me. He looked at the stars,
his jaw tight. I tried, Myra once, when I was
back for a week. Lulla said, you moved on, that
you were thriving in Denver. I didn't want to pull
you back. His voice was heavy with regret. Myra's heart
(09:34):
sank Lulla, always envious of her bond with Jasper, had
sabotaged them. She lied, Myra whispered, the betrayal sharp. I
waited for you, Jasper, for months. I thought you'd forgotten me.
His eyes met hers pained, I'm sorry. I thought letting
you go was right. You were meant for more than
Crust the Vun. He reached for her hand, his touch tentative,
(09:55):
warm from handling Clay. She didn't pull away, the contacts
lurring memories of their hands entwined by the studio's wheels.
I wanted you, not denver, she said, her voice breaking.
The admission hung between them, fragile as wet clay. I
wrote every month, Myra, Jasper said, every letter was for you.
His honesty cracked her duffuncers, and she felt the pull
(10:16):
of their past like a spark catching fire, but fear
held her back. She couldn't risk her heart again. She stood,
the stars blurrung in her eyes, and walked back to
the studio, the weight of truth and trust glowing within her.
Chapter seven, The Clays Dance. The studio hummered with activity
as Myra and Jasper prepared for the Crust Vun Festival,
(10:37):
their best chance to save Lane's pottery studio. They crafted
a pottery collection for the festival. Terra cotta mugs with
meadow glazes, cobalt vases with herbim beds, och bowls with
subtle swirls, each piece glowing with the studio's essence. Myra's
hands guided the clay on the wheel, the hummer steady rhythm,
while Jasper carved wooden shelves, his focus intense. Their work
(11:00):
felt like a dance, each move complimenting the other, but
the air crackled with unspoken tension. As they shaped of
vas A smudge of clay landed on Myra's cheek. She laughed,
wiping it off, but Jasper reached out, brushing it gently
with his thumb. Careful, he said, his voice husky. Their
faces inches apart, Her pulse raced, and she teased, still messy,
(11:24):
breaking the moment, her cheeks flushed. You're perfect, Jasper said,
his smile soft. The words hit her, stirring memories of
late nights shaping clay together, Dreaming of a shared future.
She turned to the wheel, focusing on the clay, but
her heart pounded. They worked late, the collection taking shape
under the studio's warm lights. Jasper shared stories of his
time in Boisey, grueling kiln shifts, lonely nights, and Myra listened,
(11:47):
drawn to his vulnerability. Why do you come back, she asked,
pausing her work for the studio. He said, for Auvelin
and for you, even if I didn't admit it. Then
his honesty warmed her, fraying the wall she'd built, but
fear lingered she couldn't fall again, not with the studio's
fate and her heart at stake. As they glazed the mugs,
(12:07):
their hands brushed, and Myra felt a spark she couldn't extinguish.
Chapter eight, The town's stand The next morning, crusted, the
un buzzed with purpose, Myra and Jasper organized an open
house at the studio, inviting the town to see its value.
Potter's demonstrated wheel throwing kids shaped clay bowls, and Missus
Harlowe brought honey scones. The community's support was a warm glow,
(12:31):
but Roland Pierce's smear campaign cast a shadow. Fliers claimed
the studio's kilns posed a fire risk. Myra's anger flared,
but Jasper'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
Myra's pottery and Jasper's shelves. A petition to declare the
(12:55):
studio a historic site gained signatures, and the mayor promised
to push it through. Rowland arrived, his presence a cold draft.
This is charming, he said, his tone sharp. But my
condos will bring progress. Your delaying the inevitable. Myra stood tall.
This studio is our future, not your prophet. The crowd cheered,
(13:15):
and Jasper'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, Mara didn't pull away.
The air felt charged, their faces close, but a child's
laugh broke the spell. Myra stepped back, her heart racing.
The festival was days away, their last chance to save
the studio and maybe their love. Chapter nine, The crusler
(13:38):
Van Festival. The Crustavun Festival transformed the town into a
vibrant haven, its fields aglow with lanterns, the scent of
clay and pine mingling in the crisp air, and the
humm of fiddles weaving through the night. Lane's pottery studio
stood as the festival's heart, Its doors flung open shelves
radiant with Myra Lane's creations, terra cotta mugs, cobalt vases,
(14:01):
ochre bowls, each piece glowing like earth and stars. Jasper
Reed's hand crafted wooden shelves, carved with crest motifs, showcased
her work their collaboration. A beacon of Hope townsfolk and
visitors from neighboring towns crowded the studio, bidding on pottery
and donating to save it from Roland Pierce's luxury condo plans.
(14:24):
Myra's heart swelled with each sail. The funds nung the
amount needed to clear the studio's debts. With the tax
deadline just days away, Myra adjusted a cobalt vase, its
curve catching the lantern light, her fingers lingering on the
smooth glaze. Jasper moved beside her, his flannel shirt dusted
with slip, his green eyes bright with pride. This place
(14:47):
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. Roland Pierce appeared at
the studio's entrance, his tailored suit stark against the festival's
rustic charm. He approached, his smile sharp, Miss Lane, he said,
eyeing the pottery a valiant effort, But my condos will
(15:10):
bring jobs, progress, Sell now, and I'll feature your pottery
in our lobby. Myra's resolve hardened. This studio is Crusthavun's soul,
not your showcase. Her voice rang out, and the crowd
murmured support. Jasper stepped closer, his presence steady. She's right,
he said, This town chooses its heart over your profit.
(15:31):
Roland's eyes narrowed, but he left without a word, his
footsteps fadding into the festival's hum. As dusk fell, the
mayor took the stage, her voice clear, thanks to your generosity,
Lane's pottery studio has raised enough to clear its debts,
and our petition has made it a historic sight. The
crowd irrupted in cheers, and Myra's eyes strung with relief.
(15:51):
Jasper's hand found hers, his touch a quiet promise. They
joined the festival's dance, their steps close under the lanterns,
the music weaving their past and present into a single,
radiant moment. Word count told her one one hundred done
seventy five. Chapter ten, The Letters Unearthed the festival's triumph
(16:12):
lingered in Myra's mind as she climbed the studio's attic stairs.
The next evening, a lantern casting shadows on the dusty beams.
Jasper's confession about the letters he'd sent hidden by her
cousin Lulla, had left her restless, needing proof. Dust swirled
in the lantern's light. As she sifted through her grandmother
of Lund's belongings. In a wooden box tucked behind old
clay molds, she found them. A bundle of envelopes, edges yellowed,
(16:36):
addressed to her in Jasper's steady handwriting. Her heart pounded
as she opened one, the paper crinkling. Myra, I'm sorry
I left. My father'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. Nine years
(16:58):
of pain's betrayal cut deep, but Jasper'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.
Jasper's eyes widened, and he stepped closer, his breath catching.
What did they say? He asked, his voice low, that
(17:22):
you loved me. She said, her throat tight, that you
never forgot. She handed him a letter and he read
it silently, his jaw clenching. Lulla told me you moved on,
He said, I thought I was doing right by letting
you go. She lied, Myra whispered, I waited for you.
The admission hung between them, heavy with lost years. Jasper
(17:42):
reached for 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 told her one one hundred don seventy five.
Chapter eleven, The Crest's Light. The studio hummered with quiet
(18:03):
energy as Myra and Jasper crafted pottery for a community market.
The wheels hum a steady rhythm. The hands moved in sink,
shaping clay and glazing vases, the air thick with the
scent of wet clay and pine. Myra's fingers brushed Jasper
as they adjusted an ochre bowl, and a spark shot
through her warm and undeniable, I was so angry. She
(18:23):
admitted pausing her work. But I missed you, Jasper. Every
day he set a mold down, his green eyes soft
but intense. I missed you too. Every night in Boise,
I saw you in the clay I shaped. He stepped closer,
the space between them shrinking. I love you, Mara. I
never stopped. Her breath, caught the weight of nine years,
(18:44):
fatting under his gaze. She wanted to guard her heart,
but his truth burned through her doubts. They walked to
the riverbank, the pine trees, branches swaying in the breeze
under their canopy. Myra kissed him, her lips meeting his
with a warmth that felt like home. His arms wrapped
around her. Steady and shore and the rivers rush echoed
their pulse. I love you too, she whispered, the words
(19:05):
of flame binding them. They sat by the water, planning
the studio's future workshops, markets, a hub for crust, Thevun's artisans.
Jasper's hands 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
(19:26):
told her one one hundred Don seventy five, Chapter twelve,
The Crest's Song. Weeks later, Lane's pottery studio thrived as
Crusavun's Heart, its shelves alive with Myra's creations, Terracotta mugs,
cobalt vase's oke bowls displayed on Jasper's carved shelves. The
studio buzzed with activity, children shaping clay bowls, locals crafting gifts.
(19:49):
The town council had cemented its status as a historic
site safe from Rowland Pearce's plans, and visitors flocked from
neighboring towns to see the reborn space. Myra stood in
the studio watching a girl shape her first mug, her
smile mirroring of Lane. The sight warmed her. Her grandmother's
legacy was alive. Jasper joined her, his flannel shirt dusted
(20:13):
with glaze, 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 her riverside Pine, its branches
heavy with starlight. Together they shaped a joint vase on
a portable wheel, their hands getting the clay into a
piece swirled with crest hues. Each curve felt like a promise,
(20:33):
their love glowing in every line. As the moon rose,
casting a silver glow over the studio, Myra turned to Jasper,
What now, she asked, her voice soft. He took her hand,
his smile warm. We keep singing together. Crust the vun
embraced them, not just a town, but a vow of
for ever their love, a song that held it all together.
Song of the Crest Part one by Leela Stirling. Chapter one,
The Potter's Return. The train rolled into Cresthaven as dawn
brushed the sky with hues of clay and amber. Myra
Lane stepped onto the platform, her scarf catching the cool
breeze scented with earthen, clay, and pine. At thirty two,
(00:21):
she hadn't returned in nine years, not since she'd left
for Denver to pursue a career in ceramic design. A
lawyer's letter had called her back Lane's pottery studio. Her
grandmother's haven was buckling under unpaid debts, and a developer,
Rowland Pearce, planned to turn it into a luxury condo complex.
Myra intended to assess the studio, sell it, and return
(00:44):
to her city life, But the site of the studio's
stone facade, glowing softly in the morning light, stirred a
pang of memory. This was where her grandmother, Evelyn, had
taught her to shape clay her hands. Gidding Myra's to
craft vessels that held stories, Mara pushed open the studio's door,
the bell jingling faintly. Inside, shelves held pottery, terra cotta, mugs,
(01:07):
cobalt vases, ochre bowls, their curves catching the light. The
air hummed with the faint scent of wet clay, but
dust coated the wheels, and a kiln was cracked. Mara
traced a finger over cobalt vase, memories flooding back, Evelin's
warm chuckle, the spin of the wheel, the smooth glide
of clay. Now, with Evelin gone, the studio felt like
a fatting song. Mayra Lane. A voice called low and steady,
(01:30):
like the hum of a potter's wheel. She turned to
see a man at a work bench shaping a clay mug.
His chestnut hair was flecked with slip, and his flannel
shirt was smudged with glaze. Her breath caught. Jasper red,
her first love, who'd vanished from her life at twenty three.
Without a word, Jasper, she said, her voice tight, what
are you doing here? Chapter two? The shattered clay. Jasper
(01:54):
set the mug down, his green eyes meeting hers, calm
but shadowed. Your grandmother kept me on as manager after
you left, he said, wiping glaze from his hands. I've
been keeping the studio running. Myra's jaw tightened. Running you left,
Jasper you don't get to claim this place. Nine years ago,
they'd spent summers shaping clay, dreaming of a future under
(02:17):
Cresthaven's starry skis. His sudden disappearance had cracked her heart,
sending her to Denver to rebuild. Seeing him here in
her grandmother's studio felt like a fresh fracture. The studios struggling,
Jasper said, stepping closer, worn wheels, unpaid suppliers, and Roland
pierces circling. I'm trying to hold it together. I'm here
(02:39):
to sell, Myra snapped, but the words felt fragile. The
studio's debts were dire taxes, repair costs, and the town
council had given her two months to settle them or
lose the property. Roland's condos loomed, threatening Cresthaven's charm. Jasper
gestured to a cracked kiln. This needs fixing to keep
(03:00):
production going. I can handle it, if you'll let me.
She wanted to refuse, but the studio's state was grim,
and Jasper knew its wheels and glazes 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.
(03:20):
The hum of the kiln filled the silence as Myra
sorted clay blocks, her eyes drifting to his steady hands.
His presence was a spark she couldn't ignore, stirring memories
she'd buried. By dusk, the kiln was patched, and Jasper's
gaze softened. Why do you come back, Myra, he asked,
for gran she said, avoiding his eyes. This studio was
(03:41):
her everything. Chapter three, The town's clay Presthaven rallied around Myra.
The next day. Missus Harlowe, the baker, brought jars of
local honey for glaize pigments. Her smile warm. Evelyn would
be proud, she said. The florist donated dried herbs for
clay and beds, and locals visited, Drawn by the studio
earth and warmth, Myra started a pottery workshop for kids,
(04:03):
hopping to build support. The studio buzzed with chatter and
the spin of wheels, but Roland Pierce's shadow loomed. At
a town meeting, the developer stood his voice, slick, Presthaven
needs progress, condos, tourists, jobs. Lane's pottery studio is outdated.
Myra stood her heart, racing. This studio is our heart,
(04:23):
not your complex. The crowd cheered, but Roland's smile was sharp,
promising a fight. Afterward, Jasper found her outside the studio,
the street lights casting a soft glow. You were fierce,
he said, his tone warm. Myra shrugged her guard up.
Why do you leave, Jasper? No note nothing, His face tightened.
My father was in troubled debts, legal issues. I went
(04:46):
to work kilns in Boise to help him. I wrote
to you Myra every month. I never got any letters,
she said, her voice breaking. Had her cousin Leela hidden
them out of jealousy. The revelation hit like shattered clay,
and she turned away, the studio's lights blurring in her eyes.
Chapter four, the first spin in the studio, Myra shaped
(05:07):
a terra cotta mug. The wheels hum steady under her fingers.
Jasper watched his hands idle. You've still got it, he said,
a smile in his voice. She smoothed the clay the
curve soft, Gran taught me well. Their eyes met, and
the years seemed to soften. But the studio's debts pressed
harder and Rowland's offer loomed. Myra planned a fundraiser at
the community center, hopping to rally more support. Jasper helped,
(05:30):
repairing wheels and 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 Myra's
pulse quickened. We're not kids anymore, she said, stepping back.
Jasper nodded, but his gaze held a spark. The center
glowed that night with locals bidding on pottery, but Roland's
(05:50):
presence cast a chill. My offer's fair, he said. Myra's
resolve hardened. She'd fight for the studio and maybe her heart.
Chapter five, The fundraisers glow. The Cresthaven Community Center shimmered
under strings of fairy lights, its wooden rafters casting a
warm glow for the fundraiser to save Lane's pottery studio.
(06:11):
Myra Lane arranged her pottery on display tables, terra cotta mugs,
cobalt vases, ochre bowls, their curves catching the light like
earthen stars. Jasper Reed's handcrafted wooden shelves, carved with subtle
crest patterns, showcased her creations. Their collaboration a testament to
their shared past. The room buzzed with townsfolk their voices
(06:32):
mingling with the soft pluck of a guitarist. As bids
climbed higher, Myra's heart lifted 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. Jasper
moved through the crowd, offering cups of herbin fused tea.
His flannel shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing glaze streaked forearms.
(06:56):
His green eyes caught us across the room, a quiet
smile sparking a warmth she tried 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 bidder,
an elderly woman who admired an ochre bowl. It's like
Velund's work, the woman said, her voice soft. You've got
(07:19):
a touch Myra. Before Myra could respond, Roland Pears swept
in his tailored suits, stark against the crowd's cousin knits.
The room hushed slightly as he approached. His smile calculated
miss Lane, he said, just young to the pottery impressive turnout.
But my company can buy the studio outright, turn it
into a cultural exhibit in our condos. You'd be debt
(07:42):
free with profit. Myra's stomach twisted. This studio isn't a display,
it's crust the Vun's heart. Her voice carried, and murmurs
of agreement rippled through the crowd. Roland's eyes narrowed, but
his smile held heart doesn't pay bills. My offer's open
for now. He glided away, leaving a chill in his wake.
(08:03):
Jasper appeared at Myra's side, his shoulder 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 starlet 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, Jasper helped stack shelves,
(08:26):
his hands. Careful, you're doing it, Myra, he said. Ov
Lun would be proud. Her throat tightened, the past and
present humming together. Chapter six, The starlet confession. The stars
shimmered over crust the van, their light dancing on the river.
Outside Lane's pottery studio, Myra sat on a riverside bench.
(08:47):
The fundraiser's success tempered by Roland's offer and the sting
of Jasper's lost letters. Had her cousin Lulla really hidden
them out of jealousy? The thought burned and she needed answers.
The studio's door creaked, and Jasper 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
(09:10):
clung to him, grounding her. Why didn't you try harder,
Myra asked, her voice roar. Letters are one thing, Jasper,
but you'd stuff called found me. He looked at the stars,
his jaw tight. I tried, Myra once, when I was
back for a week. Lulla said, you moved on, that
you were thriving in Denver. I didn't want to pull
you back. His voice was heavy with regret. Myra's heart
(09:34):
sank Lulla, always envious of her bond with Jasper, had
sabotaged them. She lied, Myra whispered, the betrayal sharp. I
waited for you, Jasper, for months. I thought you'd forgotten me.
His eyes met hers pained, I'm sorry. I thought letting
you go was right. You were meant for more than
Crust the Vun. He reached for her hand, his touch tentative,
(09:55):
warm from handling Clay. She didn't pull away, the contacts
lurring memories of their hands entwined by the studio's wheels.
I wanted you, not denver, she said, her voice breaking.
The admission hung between them, fragile as wet clay. I
wrote every month, Myra, Jasper said, every letter was for you.
His honesty cracked her duffuncers, and she felt the pull
(10:16):
of their past like a spark catching fire, but fear
held her back. She couldn't risk her heart again. She stood,
the stars blurrung in her eyes, and walked back to
the studio, the weight of truth and trust glowing within her.
Chapter seven, The Clays Dance. The studio hummered with activity
as Myra and Jasper prepared for the Crust Vun Festival,
(10:37):
their best chance to save Lane's pottery studio. They crafted
a pottery collection for the festival. Terra cotta mugs with
meadow glazes, cobalt vases with herbim beds, och bowls with
subtle swirls, each piece glowing with the studio's essence. Myra's
hands guided the clay on the wheel, the hummer steady rhythm,
while Jasper carved wooden shelves, his focus intense. Their work
(11:00):
felt like a dance, each move complimenting the other, but
the air crackled with unspoken tension. As they shaped of
vas A smudge of clay landed on Myra's cheek. She laughed,
wiping it off, but Jasper reached out, brushing it gently
with his thumb. Careful, he said, his voice husky. Their
faces inches apart, Her pulse raced, and she teased, still messy,
(11:24):
breaking the moment, her cheeks flushed. You're perfect, Jasper said,
his smile soft. The words hit her, stirring memories of
late nights shaping clay together, Dreaming of a shared future.
She turned to the wheel, focusing on the clay, but
her heart pounded. They worked late, the collection taking shape
under the studio's warm lights. Jasper shared stories of his
time in Boisey, grueling kiln shifts, lonely nights, and Myra listened,
(11:47):
drawn to his vulnerability. Why do you come back, she asked,
pausing her work for the studio. He said, for Auvelin
and for you, even if I didn't admit it. Then
his honesty warmed her, fraying the wall she'd built, but
fear lingered she couldn't fall again, not with the studio's
fate and her heart at stake. As they glazed the mugs,
(12:07):
their hands brushed, and Myra felt a spark she couldn't extinguish.
Chapter eight, The town's stand The next morning, crusted, the
un buzzed with purpose, Myra and Jasper organized an open
house at the studio, inviting the town to see its value.
Potter's demonstrated wheel throwing kids shaped clay bowls, and Missus
Harlowe brought honey scones. The community's support was a warm glow,
(12:31):
but Roland Pierce's smear campaign cast a shadow. Fliers claimed
the studio's kilns posed a fire risk. Myra's anger flared,
but Jasper'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
Myra's pottery and Jasper's shelves. A petition to declare the
(12:55):
studio a historic site gained signatures, and the mayor promised
to push it through. Rowland arrived, his presence a cold draft.
This is charming, he said, his tone sharp. But my
condos will bring progress. Your delaying the inevitable. Myra stood tall.
This studio is our future, not your prophet. The crowd cheered,
(13:15):
and Jasper'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, Mara didn't pull away.
The air felt charged, their faces close, but a child's
laugh broke the spell. Myra stepped back, her heart racing.
The festival was days away, their last chance to save
the studio and maybe their love. Chapter nine, The crusler
(13:38):
Van Festival. The Crustavun Festival transformed the town into a
vibrant haven, its fields aglow with lanterns, the scent of
clay and pine mingling in the crisp air, and the
humm of fiddles weaving through the night. Lane's pottery studio
stood as the festival's heart, Its doors flung open shelves
radiant with Myra Lane's creations, terra cotta mugs, cobalt vases,
(14:01):
ochre bowls, each piece glowing like earth and stars. Jasper
Reed's hand crafted wooden shelves, carved with crest motifs, showcased
her work their collaboration. A beacon of Hope townsfolk and
visitors from neighboring towns crowded the studio, bidding on pottery
and donating to save it from Roland Pierce's luxury condo plans.
(14:24):
Myra's heart swelled with each sail. The funds nung the
amount needed to clear the studio's debts. With the tax
deadline just days away, Myra adjusted a cobalt vase, its
curve catching the lantern light, her fingers lingering on the
smooth glaze. Jasper moved beside her, his flannel shirt dusted
with slip, his green eyes bright with pride. This place
(14:47):
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. Roland Pierce appeared at
the studio's entrance, his tailored suit stark against the festival's
rustic charm. He approached, his smile sharp, Miss Lane, he said,
eyeing the pottery a valiant effort, But my condos will
(15:10):
bring jobs, progress, Sell now, and I'll feature your pottery
in our lobby. Myra's resolve hardened. This studio is Crusthavun's soul,
not your showcase. Her voice rang out, and the crowd
murmured support. Jasper stepped closer, his presence steady. She's right,
he said, This town chooses its heart over your profit.
(15:31):
Roland's eyes narrowed, but he left without a word, his
footsteps fadding into the festival's hum. As dusk fell, the
mayor took the stage, her voice clear, thanks to your generosity,
Lane's pottery studio has raised enough to clear its debts,
and our petition has made it a historic sight. The
crowd irrupted in cheers, and Myra's eyes strung with relief.
(15:51):
Jasper's hand found hers, his touch a quiet promise. They
joined the festival's dance, their steps close under the lanterns,
the music weaving their past and present into a single,
radiant moment. Word count told her one one hundred done
seventy five. Chapter ten, The Letters Unearthed the festival's triumph
(16:12):
lingered in Myra's mind as she climbed the studio's attic stairs.
The next evening, a lantern casting shadows on the dusty beams.
Jasper's confession about the letters he'd sent hidden by her
cousin Lulla, had left her restless, needing proof. Dust swirled
in the lantern's light. As she sifted through her grandmother
of Lund's belongings. In a wooden box tucked behind old
clay molds, she found them. A bundle of envelopes, edges yellowed,
(16:36):
addressed to her in Jasper's steady handwriting. Her heart pounded
as she opened one, the paper crinkling. Myra, I'm sorry
I left. My father'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. Nine years
(16:58):
of pain's betrayal cut deep, but Jasper'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.
Jasper's eyes widened, and he stepped closer, his breath catching.
What did they say? He asked, his voice low, that
(17:22):
you loved me. She said, her throat tight, that you
never forgot. She handed him a letter and he read
it silently, his jaw clenching. Lulla told me you moved on,
He said, I thought I was doing right by letting
you go. She lied, Myra whispered, I waited for you.
The admission hung between them, heavy with lost years. Jasper
(17:42):
reached for 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 told her one one hundred don seventy five.
Chapter eleven, The Crest's Light. The studio hummered with quiet
(18:03):
energy as Myra and Jasper crafted pottery for a community market.
The wheels hum a steady rhythm. The hands moved in sink,
shaping clay and glazing vases, the air thick with the
scent of wet clay and pine. Myra's fingers brushed Jasper
as they adjusted an ochre bowl, and a spark shot
through her warm and undeniable, I was so angry. She
(18:23):
admitted pausing her work. But I missed you, Jasper. Every
day he set a mold down, his green eyes soft
but intense. I missed you too. Every night in Boise,
I saw you in the clay I shaped. He stepped closer,
the space between them shrinking. I love you, Mara. I
never stopped. Her breath, caught the weight of nine years,
(18:44):
fatting under his gaze. She wanted to guard her heart,
but his truth burned through her doubts. They walked to
the riverbank, the pine trees, branches swaying in the breeze
under their canopy. Myra kissed him, her lips meeting his
with a warmth that felt like home. His arms wrapped
around her. Steady and shore and the rivers rush echoed
their pulse. I love you too, she whispered, the words
(19:05):
of flame binding them. They sat by the water, planning
the studio's future workshops, markets, a hub for crust, Thevun's artisans.
Jasper's hands 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
(19:26):
told her one one hundred Don seventy five, Chapter twelve,
The Crest's Song. Weeks later, Lane's pottery studio thrived as
Crusavun's Heart, its shelves alive with Myra's creations, Terracotta mugs,
cobalt vase's oke bowls displayed on Jasper's carved shelves. The
studio buzzed with activity, children shaping clay bowls, locals crafting gifts.
(19:49):
The town council had cemented its status as a historic
site safe from Rowland Pearce's plans, and visitors flocked from
neighboring towns to see the reborn space. Myra stood in
the studio watching a girl shape her first mug, her
smile mirroring of Lane. The sight warmed her. Her grandmother's
legacy was alive. Jasper joined her, his flannel shirt dusted
(20:13):
with glaze, 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 her riverside Pine, its branches
heavy with starlight. Together they shaped a joint vase on
a portable wheel, their hands getting the clay into a
piece swirled with crest hues. Each curve felt like a promise,
(20:33):
their love glowing in every line. As the moon rose,
casting a silver glow over the studio, Myra turned to Jasper,
What now, she asked, her voice soft. He took her hand,
his smile warm. We keep singing together. Crust the vun
embraced them, not just a town, but a vow of
for ever their love, a song that held it all together.
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