Ep.18) Whispers of the Hollow

• 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.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Whispers of the Hollow by Leela Stirling, Chapter one, The
Potter's Return. The train rattled into clay hello as dusk settled,
painting the hills in shades of amber and clay red.
Clara Wren stepped onto the platform, her boots scuffing the
worn wood, the air thick with the earthy scent of
damp soil and kiln smoke. At thirty two, she hadn't

(00:23):
returned in ten years, not since she'd left for Portland
to chase a career in art curation. A lawyer's letter
had pulled her back Wren's pottery studio. Her aunt's legacy
was sinking under unpaid debts, and a developer, Julian Holt,
aimed to turn it into a strip mau. Clara planned
to evaluate the studio, sell it and return to her
city life, but the sight of the studio's clay tiled

(00:45):
roof glowing under the fatting sun stirred a pang of memory.
This was where her aunt, Leela, had taught her to
shape clay, her hands gidding Clara's on the wheel, turning
earth into art. Clara pushed open the studio's door. The
familiar creek eching. Inside shelves held pottery, mugs, vases, bowls
glazed in ochre, cobalt, and sage. The air hummed with

(01:05):
the faint warmth of a kiln, but dust coated the wheels,
and a winderpin was cracked. Clara traced a finger over
a mug, its curved, smooth, Memories flooding back Leela's laughter,
the spin of the wheel, the glow of fired clay. Now,
with Leela gone, the studio felt like a fadding echo.
Clara wren A voice called, low and resonant, like a
river over stones. She turned to see a man at

(01:27):
a potter's wheel, his hands shaping a lump of clay.
His dark hair was streaked with clay, and his denim
shirt was smudged. Her breath caught Myles Tarow, her first love,
who'd vanished from her life at twenty two without a word. Miles,
she said, her voice tight, what are you doing here?
Chapter two? The unfired past. Miles slowed the wheel, his

(01:50):
hazel eyes meeting hers, steady but shadowed. Your aunt kept
me on as manager after you left, he said, wiping
clay from his hands. I've been keeping the studio running
Clara's jaw tightened, running you left, Myles. You don't get
to claim this place. Ten years ago, they'd spent summers
throwing pots, planning a future under clay Hello's starry skis.

(02:13):
His sudden disappearance had broken her, sending her to Portland
to rebuild. Seeing him here in her aunt's studio felt
like a fresh wound. The studios struggling, Miles said, stepping closer,
broken kiln, unpaid suppliers, and Julian Holt's circling. I'm trying
to hold it together. I'm here to sell, Clara snapped,

(02:34):
but the words rang hollow. The studio's debts were dire taxes,
repair costs, and the town council had given her three
months to settle them or lose the property. Julian's strip
maw loomed, threatening clay Hello's soul. Miles gestured to a
cracked wheel. This needs fixing to keep production going. I
can help, if you'll let me. She wanted to refuse,

(02:57):
but the studio's state was grim, and Mills 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 Clara sorted clay, her eyes
drifting to his steady hands. His presence was a spark

(03:19):
she couldn't ignore, stirring memories she'd buried by evening. The
wheel spun smoothly, and Miles's gaze softened. Why do you
come back, Clara? He asked for aunt Leela, she said,
avoiding his eyes. This studio was her everything. Chapter three,
The town's clay clay Hello rallied around Clara. The next day,

(03:40):
mister Carver, the grosser, brought bags of clay. His smile warm.
Leela would be proud, he said. The librarian donated glaze,
and locals visited. Drawn by the studio's earthy warmth, Clara
started a pottery workshop for kids. Hopping to build support,
The studio hummed with chatter and the spin of wheels,
but Julian Holt's shadow loomed. At a town meeting, the
developer stood his voice, slick clay, Hello needs growth, shops,

(04:04):
parking tourists. Ren's studio is a relic. Clara stood, her
heart racing. This studio is our heart, not your mouth,
The crowd cheered, but Julian's smile was sharp, promising a fight. Afterward,
Myles found her outside the studio, the street lights casting
a soft glow. You were fierce, he said, his tone warm.

(04:25):
Clara shrugged her guard up. Why do you leave Myles?
No note, nothing, His face tightened. My mom was in
troubled debts, bad choices. I went to work factories in
Denver to bail her out. I wrote to you, Clara
every week. I never got any letters, she said, her
voice breaking. Had her cousin Elise hidden them out of jealousy.
The revelation hit hard, and she turned away, the studio's

(04:48):
lights blurring in her eyes. Chapter four, the first glaze
in the studio, Clara shaped of ours. It's clay, smooth
under her fingers. Myles watched his hands idle. You've still
got he said, a smile in his voice. She applied glaze,
the cobalt shimmering aunt Leela taught me well. Their eyes met,
and the years seemed to soften, But the studio's debts

(05:09):
pressed harder and Julian's offer loomed. Clara planned a fundraiser
at the community center, hopping to rally more support. Miles helped,
repairing wheels and crafting wooden shelves. Their work felt like
a shared rhythm, each moves sparking memories. As they set
up for the fundraiser, their hands brushed and Clara's pulse quickened.
We're not kids anymore, she said, stepping back. Myles nodded,

(05:31):
but his gaze held a spark. The center glowed that
night with locals bidding on pottery, but Julian's presence cast
a chill. My offer's fair, he said. Clara's resolve hardened.
She'd fight for the studio and maybe her heart. Chapter five,
The Fundraiser's Fire. The Claihlo Community Center glowed with warmth,
its rafters strung with fairy lights that cast a soft

(05:54):
sheen over the polished wood floors. Clara Wren arranged pottery
on display tables, cobalt vas sage mugs, ochre bowls, each
piece gleaming with the earthy artistry of Wren's pottery studio.
Myles Tarots, hand carved wooden shelves etched with subtle vine
patterns framed her creations. Their collaboration a testament to their

(06:14):
shared past. The fundraiser to save The studio buzzed with townsfolk,
their voices blending with the strum of a local banjo player.
As bids climbed higher, Clara's heart lifted with each sail.
The funds edging closer to clearing the studio's debts, but
the looming tax deadline, now just weeks away, kept her

(06:34):
tethered to reality. Myles wove through the crowd, offering cups
of mulled wine, his denim shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing
clay streaked forearms. His hazel eyes caught us across the room,
a quiet smile sparking a warmth she tried to quell.
They'd been working together for days, throwing pots, sanding shelves,
and his steady presence was eroding her resolve to keep

(06:55):
him at arm's length. She turned to a bidder, an
elderly woman who admired a glazed bowl. It's like Leela's work,
the woman said, her voice soft. You've got her touch Clara.
Before Clara could respond, Julian Holt entered his tailored suits,
stark against the crowd's flannel and wool. The room hushed

(07:15):
slightly as he approached. His smile calculated miss Wren, he said,
gesturing to the pottery. Impressive turn out. But my company
can buy the studio outright, preserve it as a cultural
exhibit in our mouth. You'd walk away debt free with profit.
Clara's stomach churned. This studio isn't a display case. It's

(07:35):
Clay Hallo's heart. Her voice carried, and murmurs of support
rippled through the crowd. Julian's eyes narrowed, but his smile held.
Heart doesn't pay taxes. My office stands for now. He
glided away, leaving a chill in the air. Myles appeared
at Clara's side, his shoulder brushing hers. He's nervous, he said, quietly.

(07:56):
You're winning them over. His voice steadied her, but their
brief touched and a spot through her stirring memories of
starlet nights. She stepped back, focusing on the bids, but
his presence lingered like a warm kiln. By night's end,
the fundraiser had raised nearly half the needed funds. As
they packed up, Myles helped stack shelves, his hands. Careful,
you're doing it, Clara, he said. Leela would be proud.

(08:18):
Her throat tightened. The past and present molding together. Chapter six,
The Starlet Confession. The stars glittered over Clayhelo, their light
dancing on the river. Outside Wren's pottery studio, Clara sat
on a riverside bench. The fundraiser's success tempered by Julian's
offer and the sting of Myles's lost letters. Had her
cousin Elise really hidden them out of jealousy? The thought

(08:40):
burned and she needed answers. The studio's door creaked and
Miles 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 clung to him, grounding her. Why
didn't you try harder, Clara asked, her voice roar. Letters

(09:02):
are one thing, Miles, but you could have called found me.
He looked at the stars, his jaw tight. I tried,
Clara once, when I was back for a week. Elise said,
you moved on, that you were thriving in Portland. I
didn't want to pull you back. His voice was heavy
with regret. Clara's heart sank. Elise, always envious of her

(09:22):
bond with Miles had sabotaged them. She lied. Clara whispered
the betrayal sharp. I waited for you, Myles 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 Clay. Hello. He reached for
her hand, his touch tentative, warm from shaping Clay. She

(09:44):
didn't pull away, the contact stirring memories of their hands
entwined by the studio's kiln. I wanted you, not Portland,
she said, her voice breaking. The admission hung between them,
fragile as wet Clay. I wrote every week, Clara, Miles said,
every letter was for you. His honesty cracked her defenses,
and she felt the pull of their past, like a
wheel finding its rhythm. But fear held her back. She

(10:06):
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 shaping her thoughts. Chapter seven,
The Wheel's Rhythm. The studio hummed with activity as Clara
and Myles prepared for the Clahilo Fare, their best chance
to save Wren's pottery studio. They crafted a large vase

(10:27):
for the fair centerpiece, a tall piece glazed in cobalt
and sage, etched with river patterns. Clara's hands guided the clay.
The wheels spin a steady rhythm, while Myles carved wooden shelves,
his focus intense. Their work felt like a dance, each
move complimenting the other, but the air crackled with unspoken tension.
As they shaped the vase, a smear of clay landed

(10:49):
on Clara's cheek. She laughed, brushing it off, but Myles
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, breaking the moment, her cheeks flushed.
You're perfect, Miles said, his smile soft. The words hit her,
stirring memories of late nights throwing pots together, dreaming of

(11:12):
a shared future. She turned to the wheel, focusing on
the clay, but her heart pounded. They worked late, the
vas taking shape under the studio's warm lights. Miles shared
stories of his time in Denver, ruling factory shifts, lonely nights,
and Clara listened, drawn to his vulnerability. Why do you
come back, she asked, pausing her work for the studio.
He said, for Leela, and for you, even if I

(11:35):
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 fate and her heart at stake.
As they glazed the vas, their hands brushed, and Clara
felt a spark she couldn't ignore. Chapter eight, The Towns Stand.
The next morning, Clay hello buzzed with purpose. Clara and

(11:56):
Myles organized an open house at the studio, inviting the
town to see its value. Potters demonstrated their craft, kids
shaped clay, and mister Kaver brought pastries. The community's support
was palpable, but Julian Holt's smear campaign cast a shadow.
Fliers claimed the studio was unsafe, its kilns outdated. Clara's
anger flared, but Miles's calm presence steadied her. We'll show them,

(12:21):
he said, his hand brushing hers as they set up displays.
The open house drew a crowd, with townsfolk marveling at
Clara's pottery and Miles's shelves. A petition to declare the studio,
a historic site, gained signatures, and the mayor promised to
present it to the council. Julian arrived, his presence a
cold draft. This is charming, he said, his tone patronizing,

(12:44):
But my mouth will bring progress. You're fighting a lost cause.
Clara stood tall. This studio is our future, not your profit.
The crowd cheered, and Miles's proud smile warmed her. As
the day ended, they stood in the studio, adjusting a
VA's display. Their hands met, and for a moment, Clara
didn't pull away. The air felt charged, their faces close,
but a child's laugh broke the spell. Clara stepped back,

(13:07):
her heart racing. The fare was days away, their last
chance to save the studio and maybe their love. Chapter nine,
The Clay Hello Fair. The Clay Hello Fair transformed the
town into a vibrant mosaic, its fields alive with colorful booths,
the scent of roasted chestnuts, and the laughter of children
chasing fireflies. Ren's pottery studio stood as the fair's centerpiece,

(13:30):
its doors wide open, shelves gleaming with Clara Wren's creations,
cobalt vases, sage mugs, ochre bowls. Each piece a testament
to her aunt's legacy. Myles Tarot's hand carved wooden shelves
etched with vine patterns framed 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

(13:54):
from Julian Holt's strip mal plans. Clara's heart swelled with
each sail. The fund's nearing the amount needed to clear
the studio's debts. With the tax deadline just days away,
Clara adjusted a glazed vase, its surface catching the sunlight,
her fingers lingering on the smooth clay. Miles moved beside her,

(14:15):
his denim shirt dusted with clay, his hazel eyes bright
with pride. This place is thriving, he said, his voice warm.
You did this, Clara. His words kindled a spark in her,
but the pressure of the deadline kept her grounded. Julian
Holt appeared at the studio's entrance, his tailored suit stark
against the fair's rustic charm. He approached, his smile sharp,

(14:38):
Miss Wren, he said, eyeing the pottery a fine effort,
but my mouth will bring jobs, progress, sell now, and
I'll feature your work in our lobby. Clara's resolve hardened.
This studio is Clahelo's soul, not your showcase. Her voice
rang out, and the crowd murmured support. Myles stepped closer,
his presence steady. She's right, he said, this town chooses

(15:01):
its heart over your prophet. Julian's eyes narrowed, but he
left without a word, his footsteps fadding into the fair's
hum As dusk fell, the mayor took the stage, her
voice clear, thanks to your generosity, Reren's Pottery Studio has
raised enough to clear its debts, and our petition has
made it a historic sight. The crowd erupted in cheers,
and Clara's eyes strung with relief. Myles's hand found hers,

(15:25):
his touch a quiet promise. They joined the fair's dance,
their steps close under the lanterns, the music weaving their
past and present into a single vibrant moment. Chapter ten,
The letters unearthed The Fair's triumph lingered in Clara's mind
as she climbed the studio's attic stairs. The next evening,
a lantern casting shadows on the dusty beams Myles's confession

(15:47):
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 aunt Leela's belongings
in a clay box tucked behind old glazed jars, She
found them, A bundle of envelopes, edges worn, addressed to
her in Miles's steady handwriting. Her heart pounded as she

(16:08):
opened one, the paper crackling Clara, I'm sorry I left.
Mom's debts were crushing, 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 ten years of pain. Elise's betrayal
cut deep, but Myles's truth was a warm glaze, rekindling

(16:30):
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. Miles'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.

(16:52):
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. Clara whispered, I waited for you. The admission
hung between them, heavy with lost years. Myles reached for
her hand, his touch warm and steady. I'm here now, Clara,

(17:13):
I'm not leaving again. She didn't pull away, letting his
words shape her doubts, her heart molding toward forgiveness. Chapter eleven,
The hearts mold. The studio hummed with quiet energy as
Clara and Myles crafted pottery for a community exhibition. The
wheels spin a steady rhythm. The hands moved in sink,
shaping clay and applying glaze, the air thick with the

(17:35):
earthy scent of wet earth. Clara's fingers brushed Myles as
they adjusted a vas, and a spark shot through her
Warm and undeniable. I was so angry, she admitted, pausing
her work. But I missed you, Myles. Every day. He
slowed the wheel, his hazel eyes soft but intense. I
missed you too. Every night in Denver, I saw you

(17:56):
in the clay I shaped. He stepped closer, the space
between them shrinking. I love you, Clara, I never stopped.
Her breath caught the weight of ten years fadding under
his gaze. She wanted to guard her heart, but his
truth fired through her doubts. They walked to the riverbank,
the willow trees branches swaying in the breeze under its canopy.
Clara kissed him, her lips meeting his with a warmth

(18:18):
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 mold binding them.
They sat by the water, planning the studio's future workshops fairs,
a hub for Clay Heilo's artisans. Miles's hands stayed in hers,
a vow of partnership. For the first time, Clara saw

(18:41):
not just the studio's survival, but a life with him,
shaped and strong. Chapter twelve, The Hollows spark. Weeks later,
Ren's pottery studio thrived as Clayhillo's Heart, Its shelves alive
with Clara's pottery, cobalt vases, sage mugs, ochre bowls displayed
on Miles's carved. The studio buzzed with workshops, children shaping clay,

(19:04):
locals crafting gifts. The town council had cemented its status
as a historic site save from Julian Holt's plans, and
visitors flocked from neighboring towns to see the reborn space.
Clara stood in the studio watching a girl shape her
first mug, her smile mirroring Aunt Leela's. The sight warmed her.
Leela's legacy was alive. Myles joined her, his denim shirt

(19:28):
dusted with clay, 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 riverside willow,
its branches heavy with starlight. Together they shaped a joint
vase on a portable wheel, their hands getting the clay
into a piece glazed with river hues. Each turn of
the wheel felt like a promise. Their love fired in

(19:50):
every curve. As the moon rose, casting a silver glow
over the studio. Clara turned to Myles, What now, she asked,
her voice soft. He took her hand, his smile warm.
We keep shaping together, Clahelo embraced them not just a town,
but a vow of forever their love, a spark that
held it all together.