Marmalade

36

Marmalade, the rumored mayoral candidate of Hollowford, is a cat who knows how to own a room—or rather, a town square. He’s a large, sunlit-orange tabby with a coat that gleams like warm honey when it catches the light. His stripes are bold, tiger-like, giving him the air of quiet authority, while the snowy tuft on his chest softens him into something approachable and almost statesmanlike. His eyes are an amber-gold, sharp and knowing, the kind of gaze that makes people whisper, “He knows something we don’t.” Marmalade’s walk is unhurried but purposeful. He never darts or scrambles like other cats—he arrives. Whether stepping onto a market stall or sauntering across town hall steps, he carries himself with the practiced composure of someone well aware that people will make way. Children try to pet him, old men nod respectfully as he passes, and tourists snap photos in awe. His personality is half-charmer, half-mystic. He’ll curl up in shop windows like he’s claiming new territory, or leap onto benches mid-conversation, staring down townsfolk as though moderating debates. Rumor has it he once stopped a shouting match between two council members just by sitting between them and flicking his tail. As for his “policies,” they’re speculative, of course. Some townsfolk swear he’s campaigning for more sunbeams in public spaces. Others claim he’s advocating free fish Fridays at the market. Still others insist his platform is about fairness—equal lap access for all. Whether or not Marmalade is truly running for mayor, the truth is this: the town already treats him like one. Posters with his face appear mysteriously on lampposts. Merch with his whiskered likeness circulates at the café. And Saffron, his ever-dedicated manager, ensures that his image online is just as flawless as it is in person.

Mira Hunt

1

Rain slicked neon painted the streets of Hollowford when Mira Hunt stepped off the bus. She’d come here for quiet—cheap rent, a slower life—but small towns have a way of hiding strange teeth behind friendly smiles. The locals at the diner told her two things: never use the east pier after dark, and never play the claw machine in the old arcade. She took the second warning as a challenge. By day, Mira worked shifts at a dusty bookshop; by night, she followed her real calling—ghost hunting. She didn’t look the part, unless you counted the sleek black suit threaded with conductive filaments and the twin plasma cuffs glowing faintly at her wrists. Hollowford Arcade smelled of mildew and old gum, the kind of place where time forgot the high scores. Coins and bills were scattered across the sticky floor, as if players had fled mid-game. At the far corner sat The Grasper, a claw machine framed in faded chrome, its prize chamber stuffed with plush toys that never aged. As Mira approached, she felt the static—an oily, cold vibration slithering under her skin. She dropped in a coin. The machine hummed low, like a growl, and the joystick jerked on its own. Mira wrestled it, guiding the claw toward a faded bear with one button eye. The glass fogged from the inside, letters forming on the mist: LEAVE. “Sorry,” Mira whispered. “Not my style.” The claw descended—and froze mid-air. The bear’s stitched mouth twitched. Slowly, deliberately, the claw machine’s LED eyes blinked. Mira’s cuffs surged with blue light, flaring arcs across her gloves. The machine shrieked in static, metal warping as she fired a pulse into its circuitry. Lights stuttered, prizes writhed, and for a heartbeat she swore she saw a gaunt face pressed to the glass. Then—silence. When the glow faded, the bear lay limp in the chute. Mira picked it up, its fabric still faintly warm. As she left the arcade, she didn’t notice the reflection in the machine’s glass—its eyes slowly opening again

Mira Hunt

3

The bell above the door to Harland’s Old Books gave its usual tired jingle as Mira Hunt flipped the sign to Open. The shop smelled of yellowed pages, wood polish, and the faint ghost of pipe smoke—old Mr. Harland’s scent lingering long after he’d retired. Sunlight crept through dusty windows, catching in the motes drifting between leaning shelves that seemed to groan under the weight of their contents. Mira liked mornings here. The slow rhythm, the silence only broken by the creak of floorboards, gave her time to think. She started her usual ritual—brewing tea, checking the register, and making sure the local history section was tidy. Most customers headed straight for the new releases by the window, never sparing a glance for the cracked-spined volumes in the back. That suited her fine. When the shop was empty, she slipped into the archive room behind the counter, where stacks of unsorted donations sat in precarious towers. Here, she hunted—not ghosts, but the paper trails they left behind. A ledger from 1893 hinted at the collapse of a mining tunnel and the “restless sightings” that followed. A half-burnt diary described strange blue lights at the harbor. Mira scribbled notes in her leather journal, each entry feeding her growing map of Hollowford’s hauntings. Around midday, a regular wandered in for a newspaper and coffee-table travel book. Mira handled the sale with polite efficiency, never revealing the thrill buzzing under her calm surface. To anyone watching, she was just the quiet shop clerk who preferred reading to conversation. When the final customer left, she returned to a stack of brittle scrapbooks. One photo caught her eye—an arcade, thirty years ago, before the neon faded and the plaster peeled. In the background, barely visible, was the same claw machine she’d battled the week before. Its glass was clouded even then, and behind it, a shadow that didn’t belong. Mira closed the book, lips curving in a private smile.

Ms. Rourke

1

Ms. Dahlia Rourke was never the kind of teacher who fit inside the rigid frame of lesson plans and standardized tests. She taught history officially, but anyone who ended up in detention soon discovered her unofficial calling: detention stylist. Instead of silent punishment, her classroom became a low-lit salon where desks doubled as vanity counters and the squeak of dry-erase markers turned into makeshift eyeliner tutorials. Students would line up, groaning about getting caught ditching class or sneaking phones, only to leave detention with perfectly winged eyeliner sharp enough to slice through excuses. “History is written by the victors,” she’d quip, holding up a compact mirror, “but eyeliner is worn by the survivors.” Ms. Rourke dressed like a magazine ad that got lost in the 90s—velvet blazers, chunky rings, hair streaked with a shade of burgundy that caught the hallway lights like fire. She loved dramatic eyeliner herself, a bold slash of midnight black that never smudged, no matter how chaotic the day became. The other teachers disapproved, muttering about “professional boundaries,” but the students adored her. To them, she wasn’t just an authority figure—she was the one adult who understood that style was armor, a way of surviving high school’s endless wars. Her detention sessions became legendary. Some kids deliberately landed themselves there, just for the chance to learn her tricks—cat-eyes, smoky lids, how to fake eight hours of sleep with one swipe of liner. And though she joked, there was a sincerity beneath it: teaching them how to face the world with confidence, even if their world was only math class and cafeteria politics. Ms. Rourke’s dream wasn’t tenure or promotion. She secretly wanted to open a small studio—half classroom, half salon—where she could teach “the art of expression” with as much weight as algebra or literature. But until then, detention was her stage, and the whiteboard her makeup kit.

Liora

2

By day, the bench in the town square of Hollowford is just a piece of weathered wood shaded by the old linden tree. But by night, under the soft glow of candlelight and moon, it becomes her office. The locals call her the “Bench Therapist,” though her real name is Liora. She doesn’t have a degree, but she has something rarer—an endless patience for listening, an ability to make anyone feel heard, and the quiet wisdom of someone who’s seen enough life to know that most hearts just need space to speak. She sits barefoot in a loose robe, notebook balanced on her knees, jotting down thoughts between sips of tea. People wander over, shopkeepers after a bad day, teenagers nursing heartbreak, an old widower who just wants to talk about the weather. Liora never charges money. Instead, her payment comes in a crinkling paper bag of jelly beans from the sweet shop. “Every flavor’s a mood,” she says, popping a lime green one after a particularly funny story, a deep purple one after a heavy confession. Fireflies drift around like glowing punctuation marks to her sentences, the warm night air wrapping her little corner in intimacy. Her cat, Pudding, acts as a silent co-counselor, sitting at her feet and staring at each visitor as if deciding whether they’re trustworthy. The townsfolk have learned that Liora’s bench is more than a place to sit—it’s a place to unload your worries, find a little clarity, and maybe leave with a jelly bean or two missing from her stash. And while she knows she could be paid in coins or bills, she wouldn’t trade the rainbow sweetness of her nightly fee for anything in the world.

Mayor Bellamy

3

Mayor Bellamy stood at the edge of the square, smiling the politician’s smile he’d worn for decades. To them, he was harmless, a man whose mayoral candidacy is being challenged by a cat. That suited him fine. No one ever looked closer when you trained them to laugh. Behind the podium, his black case thrummed faintly, its sound masked by Nina Calder’s midnight mix bleeding through the speakers. She thought her “Classified” frequencies were secret. He’d heard them all. The Archivist’s whispers, the warnings. He wondered if anyone suspected the Archivist and Nina were the same. Perhaps Milo, with his trench coat paranoia, but paranoia only makes a man easy to dismiss. Bellamy scanned the crowd. Mara at her ice cream cart, serving cones to a seagull as if it were normal. Saffron Bale, camera flashing, hungry for a headline. Ezra Cole scribbling strange symbols while Liora pretended they were therapy. Juno skated dangerously close to Theo Larkins, who crouched in the bushes like a vulture. Mira Hunt lingered by the arcade with Peter Carrow, both eyes trained on the machines. Julian Crest twiddled his radio dial, brow furrowed as if decoding the pulse Bellamy had already mastered. Even Amara Quartz, mumbling crystal incantations, seemed to feel the vibration beneath her feet. They all thought themselves players. Conspirators, seekers, eccentrics circling mysteries too big for them. But Bellamy knew the truth. They were distractions—noise in the town’s theater, while he prepared the real performance. He rested his hand on the case. Inside, something waited. Not a bomb, not quite. A key. A frequency woven into the hum of every lamppost, every arcade cabinet, every radio dial. Tonight, he would test it. A small activation, nothing more. A ripple to see who noticed. And if someone did? All the better. After all, it was easier to deal with threats once they revealed themselves. Bellamy smiled again, broader this time, as the crowd bustled, oblivious.

Peter Carrow

8

Sir Percival "The Valiant" (real name: Peter Carrow) knelt dramatically in the middle of the cobblestone street, one hand to his chest, the other raised in a solemn vow to the “ethereal winds.” His thrift-store cape fluttered faintly in the summer breeze, patterned in watercolor blotches that, in his mind, marked it as the Cloak of Dawn. Passersby skirted around him—shopkeepers on morning errands, children dragging baskets, a dog sniffing suspiciously at the pommel of his foam-padded sword. Peter didn’t notice. His voice rang clear, carrying over the bustle: "Lo! The cursed shadow of the Eastern Market spreads once more! But fear not, gentle townsfolk, for I, Sir Percival, shall banish it from your midst!" A baker’s apprentice paused to stare. An elderly woman muttered something about “too much mead” and kept walking. Peter shifted his weight, eyes sweeping over the flower boxes, lampposts, and mail carts—each transformed in his mind into enchanted groves, watchtowers, and supply wagons for his imagined army. "My quest begins anew," he continued, standing with exaggerated gravity. "Somewhere beyond the butcher’s stall lies the key to the Sapphire Gate. I must endure trials of wit, strength, and… possibly haggling." A pigeon flapped past. He pointed after it as if it were a messenger of fate. Gasps—mostly his own—followed. And with that, Sir Percival strode forward into Hollowford’s town square, narrating each step for an invisible audience, oblivious to the trail of bemused glances in his wake. The quest was on.

Juno Reyes

2

Juno Reyes could weave through Hollowford's narrow streets faster than any car, her battered skates clicking over uneven pavement as she carried the kind of mail no one was supposed to know existed. The Townie Line was an old, unofficial courier network—notes, favors, and secrets passed between locals who preferred things off the books. No stamps, no records, just trust and the right people to deliver. Juno was one of them. She loved the work—the rush of wind, the thrill of ducking through alleys and slipping envelopes into hidden drop boxes. But somewhere between delivering other people’s messages, she realized she wanted something of her own in the mix. So one evening, after her last run, she sat in her tiny kitchen with a mug of tea and wrote a letter to no one in particular. It wasn’t anything grand. Just a few lines about the sunset she’d seen that day, the smell of rain on hot asphalt, and how she sometimes wished she knew the people whose letters she carried. She signed it only with “J.” and slipped it into the network. Two days later, there was an envelope waiting in her drop box. Inside: a handwritten reply from a stranger. No name, just thoughts on their favorite street in town, and a sketch of the view from their window. Juno grinned and wrote back. Soon, the replies multiplied. Some were short—a recipe, a poem, a confession about a childhood crush. Others were pages long, filled with dreams, regrets, and late-night thoughts. Her satchel began to hold not just the town’s clandestine mail, but a thread of her own making—a growing web of anonymous connections. She never knew their names, and they didn’t know hers. But each day she skated through the streets, she carried something more than just letters. She carried proof that even in a town of secrets, strangers could still find a way to talk to each other.

Lydia Hart

0

Lydia Hart had only been in Hollowford for a week, but already the locals knew her as the coupon lady. She’d rented a little attic apartment for the summer, planning to spend her break sorting through the boxes of “treasures” she’d inherited from her grandmother. That’s how she discovered the true prize: a shoebox bursting with decades-old coupons. Sun-faded, printed in fonts no one used anymore, some offered discounts on products that had long since disappeared from shelves. Lydia was instantly smitten. Collecting them became a ritual. She’d spread them across her tiny kitchen table, grouping them by year, carefully pressing each one between pages of an old ledger. The paper smelled faintly of kitchens long gone—of cinnamon, old coffee, and Sunday dinners. One bright Saturday morning, she decided to take a few to the local grocer, just to see. She walked in with a cheerful smile, basket in hand, and when she reached the register, she slid the coupons forward like a magician revealing a winning hand. The teenage cashier blinked at a 1974 “10¢ off condensed milk” slip. “Uh… this expired… before I was born.” “Oh, I know,” Lydia said brightly. “But I thought maybe the charm would still work?” A woman in line stifled a laugh. An older man leaned over to squint, muttering, “Haven’t seen one of those in forty years…” Lydia accepted the confusion with good humor, gathering her ancient slips back into their envelope. “Guess I’ll just keep collecting, then,” she said, almost proud. As she left, sunlight spilling over her shoulder, the coupons rustled in her bag like little ghosts of shopping trips past. She wasn’t here to save money—she was here to keep the past from slipping quietly away.

Snapper

6

Theo “Snapper” Larkins dubbed himself Hollowford's resident paparazzi long ago, though no one ever actually hired him. He is fueled by curiosity, nosiness, and a camera that hasn’t been out of his hands in years. With a frayed messenger bag, grass-stained jeans, and a reputation for crouching behind hedges at all hours, Theo thrives on the thrill of catching what others want hidden. He insists the town needs him—without his tireless surveillance, who else would document the secrets that spill in the square? One evening, pressed low in the bushes near the market, Theo caught something he shouldn’t have. Two figures—faces obscured by hats—met beneath the cover of dusk. They whispered, hands fidgeting, until one slid forward a worn leather satchel. In return, the other offered a package wrapped in oilcloth. But instead of shaking on the deal, voices rose, sharp and dangerous. A hand slapped the bag away, and the exchange dissolved into hissing threats. Theo’s shutter clicked at the worst possible moment—the sound echoed too loudly in the quiet. Both heads snapped toward the bushes. Heart hammering, Theo ducked lower, clutching his camera like a lifeline. He managed to slip away, but not before catching a final shot of their eyes: cold, furious, and full of recognition. Now the negatives sit undeveloped in his darkroom, burning a hole in his mind. Should he reveal what he saw? Or would publishing these images mark him as the next target? Still, he can’t help but grin when telling the story to himself. The scoop of the season. Maybe even of a lifetime. Theo knows too much—but that’s exactly the way he likes it.

Elliot Grange

5

No one is really sure where Elliot Grange came from, but he appeared one morning in the town square with a bright yellow Post-it stuck to his forehead. It read simply: “Open Carefully.” From that day on, Elliot became known as the mystery package unboxer. Parcels of every shape and size seem to find their way to him—left on his doorstep, tucked behind benches, or handed to him by bewildered delivery riders who insist the address on the box simply reads: For Elliot. He treats each box as if it were a ritual. Standing on the square’s edge, he sets the package down, narrates its arrival in dramatic tones, then carefully slices it open with his small silver letter opener. Sometimes the boxes contain ordinary things: a half-used candle, a tangle of fishing line, a broken cassette tape. Other times, they’re stranger: a journal with only the middle pages written, a snow globe filled with sand, or an empty envelope with the scent of lavender lingering. Elliot never looks disappointed. To him, every object is a clue, every package part of some unseen thread binding him to Hollowford. Locals gather to watch his unboxings like they would a street performance. Children whisper guesses about what could be inside, while older residents trade theories about who’s sending them—and why. Elliot himself only smiles, as if he already knows something no one else does. When asked about the Post-it, he only taps his forehead where the adhesive once clung, a faraway look in his eyes. “Some notes,” he says cryptically, “aren’t meant to be peeled away. Only followed.”

Maurice Bellamy

4

In the sudsy haze of the Hollowford's laundromat, where dryers hum like an orchestra and soap bubbles drift like stage fog, Maurice Bellamy rules as the self-proclaimed soap opera director. A wiry man in his forties with hair always slicked back as though prepped for a curtain call, Maurice spends his days perched on a cracked red stool with a clipboard in one hand and a megaphone in the other, orchestrating drama not on screen, but between detergent cycles. For him, the laundromat isn’t a place to wash clothes—it’s a stage, a living set where regulars unwittingly become stars in his ongoing production: As the Spin Cycle Turns. He scribbles plotlines as if the townsfolk were actors under his direction. Last month, viewers (meaning the rotating cast of laundry-goers and the handful of folks tuned into his pirate “broadcasts” through the dryer vents) demanded a love triangle. Maurice obliged. He began weaving subtle tension between Mrs. Harrow, the butcher’s wife; Gregor, the man who always lost socks; and a mysterious newcomer who only washed bedsheets at midnight. Maurice treats it all seriously—pausing “scenes” to hand out stage directions like, “A little more longing in your eyes, Gregor!” or “Mrs. Harrow, imagine you’ve just lost your favorite blouse—give me that devastation!” Half the town rolls their eyes, but the other half keeps showing up, drawn into the ridiculous drama against their better judgment. The remarkable part is that it works. Rivalries simmer. Rumors spread. And, somehow, the laundromat always feels alive, as though Maurice is conjuring real emotion out of soap suds and routine. Some whisper that his “viewers” are more than just locals—that he has a hidden transmitter tucked behind the dryers, broadcasting his makeshift soap opera across the FM band. No one knows for sure, but those who linger in the laundromat long enough sometimes swear they hear faint applause after a particularly juicy confrontation.

Elliot Vance

2

Elliot Vance is the kind of student in Hollowford's university who drifts through campus like he’s on a different wavelength than everyone else. With his hood up, headphones on (often not even playing anything), and a calm half-smile, he gives off an aura of quiet confidence. Professors call on him rarely, but when they do, he responds with short, vague statements that somehow sound profound—“What if the equation is just a reflection of ourselves?” or “Maybe the answer isn’t in the book, but in the space between pages.” No one’s sure if he’s joking or a philosopher, and so the myth of his brilliance was born. Elliot has never corrected anyone. He’s not a genius—he just doesn’t care enough to stress. He spends most lectures doodling galaxies in the margins of his notebook, or staring out the window as if he expects a UFO to land. Despite this, people hand him group projects assuming he’ll deliver. More often than not, he comes through—not because of study, but because his strange, lazy ideas somehow work. The student body voted him Most Likely to Time Travel at the last campus poll, a title he accepted without question. Ironically, Elliot doesn’t even own a watch. He loses track of time constantly, wandering into classes halfway through or finishing exams in ten minutes flat before vanishing to sit on the lawn. When asked about time travel, he shrugs and says things like, “I’ll get there when I’ve already been,” which only fuels the rumor mill. Elliot’s chill is his superpower. He’s the kind of guy people gravitate toward when stressed because he radiates the calm of someone who never rushes. He’s equally at home lying in the grass watching clouds or accidentally sparking a philosophical debate in the dining hall. In truth, Elliot’s only real goal is to enjoy the flow of life without forcing it. But to the rest of the university, he’s the boy who could step into a wormhole at any second, if he hasn’t already.

Captain Beakman

2

Captain Beakman’s Daily Routine (as observed by me, Mara) Sunrise Patrol: Beakman appears just after dawn, circling the fountain like he’s inspecting the square for intruders. He has a rivalry with the towns cat Marmalade, who also makes an appearance around this time. He always lands dramatically, wings flapping if to remind everyone he’s in charge. Breakfast Raid: He scavenges a heel of bread from the bakery crates or steals an unsuspecting croissant if a tourist isn’t paying attention. He never eats it all—he prefers to toss crumbs around like confetti. Midday March: Around noon, he waddles proudly across the square, chest puffed out, as though he’s the mayor himself. Sometimes he picks fights with pigeons. (He always wins.) The Visit: At exactly 2:13 p.m. (I swear it’s to the minute), he arrives at my stand. One loud squawk means vanilla, two means strawberry, three means both. He doesn’t like chocolate, he throws it on the ground and stares at me like I’ve committed a crime. Post-Cone Strut: After his “meal,” he parades the square with the cone clamped in his beak, as though he’s modeling it for others. Children clap, adults laugh. He laps it up like applause. Evening Wind-Down: Before sunset, he always returns to the fountain. He perches on its rim, preening his feathers while watching the square go quiet, at times he'll give evils to the man that thinks he is the mayor of the fountin. Sometimes I wave goodnight, and I think (maybe) he nods back. Habits I’ve noticed: He likes routine more than I do. He refuses food from anyone but me. He caws extra loud when he sees tourists filming, show-off. He pecks my stand if I’m late opening. (Fair enough.) He never misses a day. Not once. Sometimes I think Captain Beakman isn’t just a seagull, he’s the square’s clock, its guardian, and my very first friend here.

Barnaby Quill

2

Barnaby Quill fancied himself a statesman, though his “kingdom” was nothing more than the town’s central fountain. With a patched-up blazer two sizes too big, a crooked badge he’d made from tin foil, and a stack of “official decrees” scribbled on napkins, he declared himself the self-proclaimed Mayor of the Fountain. From the marble rim, he would address passersby as if they were his citizens, waving his hands in grand gestures, making promises of “cleaner waters, smoother coins, and a brighter splash for all.” But Barnaby’s authority came under question when Giorgio the duck waddled onto the scene with his ally—a large, broad-chested goose. Where Barnaby had theatrics, the birds had presence. They strutted around the fountain like they already owned it, daring him to challenge them. And he did. For three days, Barnaby waged a ridiculous turf war: shouting speeches while flapping his arms at the feathered rivals, fencing with a broken umbrella, even trying to stage a public vote by drawing chalk tally marks on the cobblestones. He lost, of course. The goose was ruthless in its hissing intimidation, and Giorgio’s smug quacks seemed to seal the matter. When the “election” day came, the townsfolk sided with the birds, tossing breadcrumbs into the water as a show of support. Barnaby was ousted from his marble podium, left to pace the benches nearby, muttering about a “rigged system” and “fowl corruption.” Still, he hasn’t given up. Every morning, Barnaby returns to the fountain, claiming he’s only been “temporarily unseated.” He keeps planning his comeback—drafting more napkin decrees, rehearsing speeches, and trying to win allies among pigeons, squirrels, and curious children who find his antics endlessly entertaining. In his mind, he remains the rightful Mayor, a visionary whose dream of a glorious fountain republic has only been delayed, not defeated.

Amara Quartz

2

She arrived in town of Hollowford like a ripple through incense smoke, barefoot, draped in layered linen, carrying a satchel that clinked with the soft chime of crystals knocking together. Her name—at least the one she gave—was Amara Quartz. She called herself a manifestation coach, though no one was quite sure how she got certified, or if such a certification even existed. Amara never spoke plainly; every word was refracted through the language of stones. When someone asked how she was doing, she’d smile serenely and murmur, “A little rose quartz in my chest, but also a shadow of obsidian.” If pressed, she’d close her eyes and answer with a small riddle involving geodes. Her mornings began before dawn, with a ritual sweeping of the street outside her rented cottage, not with a broom but with sage smoke that trailed like ghostly ribbons. One morning, she wandered into her neighbor’s garden, uninvited, and circled it three times while whispering to her crystals. The neighbor, halfway through watering tomato vines, froze with the hose in hand, watching Amara fan smoke over the basil like a priestess warding off evil. She turned to him with solemn eyes and declared, “Your cucumbers carry the vibration of neglected amethyst. They thirst for alignment.” Then she floated away before he could answer. The townsfolk couldn’t decide if she was a nuisance or a blessing. children gathered near her cottage just to dare one another to ask her what kind of crystal their mood was. She never refused, laying stones in their palms with cryptic encouragements. Shopkeepers rolled their eyes but still tucked quartz in their pockets “just in case.” And somewhere in between, Amara truly believed she was shifting lives. Her goal wasn’t money or fame—it was to rewire the sleepy little town with the vibrations of clarity, to remind people that even dandelions cracking through sidewalks carried the same stubborn energy as hematite.

Mara

1

Mara never really understood how she ended up with the job. One day she was wandering through Hollowford's market square, looking for something to do, and the next she was standing behind the pastel-striped ice cream stand, apron tied askew, and a set of scoops in her hands. No one had interviewed her. No one had asked for a résumé. The stand owner simply nodded at her, handed her a paper hat, and walked off muttering about “intuition.” Since then, she has been the town’s unofficial ice cream intern. Mara treats the role with a kind of wide-eyed earnestness. She experiments with flavors, mishearing requests but somehow stumbling into surprising combinations—vanilla with crushed sunflower seeds, strawberry with a sprinkle of cinnamon, mint with a drizzle of lemon. People grumble, but oddly enough, most come back. She believes each cone is a story waiting to happen, and she hands them out like offerings of joy. Her most loyal patron, however, isn’t human at all. A large, scrappy seagull—missing a feather here, a bit too loud there—has claimed the stand as his personal haunt. He arrives daily, squawking expectantly until Mara gives him his favorite: a small scoop of vanilla in a plain cone. Sometimes he takes it delicately, sometimes with a chaotic dive, but always he comes back. Mara named him “Captain Beakman” and insists he’s her “best customer,” recording his visits in a little notebook like sales data. The townspeople are baffled, but they’ve grown fond of the routine. On slow afternoons, Mara leans on the counter and talks to Beakman as if he’s her coworker, confiding her small worries, laughing at her own mistakes, and asking him what flavor she should try next. In her mind, the internship is more than a job—it’s a chance to learn what makes people (and seagulls) happy, one scoop at a time.

Marla Quinn

1

Every morning, before Hollowford's market’s clatter fully wakes, Marla Quinn rolls her little green toast cart into its spot by the fountain. The smell of warm bread and melting butter drifts through the square like an unspoken invitation. Locals drift over—some for breakfast, some for the other thing Marla offers: her “Toast and Talk” FM show, broadcast from the tiny mic clipped to her apron. She’s got a smooth, honeyed voice that turns casual chatter into morning magic, weaving in market gossip, uplifting stories, and the occasional song request. Her menu changes daily—cinnamon sugar on Mondays, brie and fig on Fridays—but her real specialty is making people feel like they’re part of something. Regulars lean against the cart, toast in hand, while she reads letters from listeners or interviews passing townsfolk. Sometimes, if the moment feels right, she even toasts extra slices for someone who seems like they need the comfort more than the calories. By nine a.m., the market is alive with laughter, music from her portable radio, and the rich scent of coffee she never actually charges for. Tourists stumble upon the scene and find themselves swept into the easy rhythm, sharing stories with strangers over marmalade. Marla ends each broadcast the same way—lifting her mug to the square and saying, “Whatever’s on your plate today, make it worth the bite.” Then she turns off the mic, but the talking and the warmth linger long after the toast is gone.

Giorgio

1

Mirabel’s Unofficial Fashion Dossier: Giorgio the Duck Name: Giorgio (no last name needed, apparently). Occupation: Professional peacock, but in duck form. Signature Look: An emerald velvet vest that fits so flawlessly I suspect either bespoke tailoring or a small army of duck-sized stylists. Brass buttons polished to a blinding shine—dangerous if caught in direct sunlight. Strengths: Carries himself with more poise than half the models I’ve seen at city fashion shows. Walks like every cobblestone was placed there just for him. Vest game unmatched. I repeat: unmatched. Weaknesses: Prone to stopping mid-strut to preen, as if mere mortals could forget how good he looks. Refuses to acknowledge that footwear exists—claims “bare feet” are the ultimate statement. Performance Review from the Walk-Off: His entrance alone was a power move—approaching the fountain as though it were a runway finale. He didn’t just walk; he glided, every step accompanied by a slight head tilt and the faintest wing flick, as though casting invisible shade over my outfit. I gave him drama, I gave him spin, I gave him flair—yet the crowd gasped louder when he quacked in rhythm to his own footsteps. The finale? A perfect 360 spin, water droplets sparkling like diamonds as he stepped out of the splash zone completely dry. Final Verdict: Giorgio is less a duck and more a sartorial event. Challenging him was an act of bravery… or hubris. Probably hubris.

Summer Festival

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The town gathered in the square for what was supposed to be just another Hollowford’s Summer Festival. Nina Calder spun mellow tracks from her booth, her voice honeyed and calm, though her eyes flicked often toward the fountain. Milo Ferris, trench coat flapping as he balanced a stack of lukewarm pizzas, swore he’d intercepted a strange coded message in Nina’s midnight broadcast. At the fountain, Barnaby Quill shouted about “fountain taxes,” ignored by Giorgio the duck and his goose ally, who lounged in victory. Mara nervously handed out cones to children while Captain Beakman cawed, dropping seashells like payment. Saffron Bale snapped a photo of Marmalade, the town cat, striking a regal pose on the mayor’s podium. “Another headline,” Saffron muttered, “Mayor or Monarch?” Near the benches, Liora soothed Ezra Cole, who was frantically sketching chalk sigils he swore weren’t his own. Juno Reyes carved through the crowd on her board, nearly colliding with Theo “Snapper” Larkins, who was hiding in the shrubs with his camera, convinced he’d catch the scandal of the year. In the arcade glow spilling from the side street, Mira Hunt whispered to Peter Carrow, who clutched a wooden staff. “Something’s in the machines tonight,” she said. Peter only grinned. “Another quest, then.” Julian Crest scanned the air with a battered radio, catching bursts of the Archivist’s hidden voice: “They know. Watch the podium.” And there, behind the cheer and chatter, Mayor Bellamy lingered. His hands rested not on speeches or ledgers, but on a small black case set behind the podium. No one noticed the faint humming sound, except Amara Quartz, who froze mid-incantation, crystals slipping from her palms. “The grid is wrong,” she whispered. “Something is being called.” The music, laughter, and small-town chaos rolled on, but beneath it all, a secret pulse waited to break.

Julian Crest

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Julian Crest was once the pride of Hollowford's university, an honour student with sharp wit, impeccable grades, and a future lined with certainty. He studied history and archival science, obsessed with uncovering the hidden threads that shaped the past. Professors admired him, peers envied him. But then, late one night, while fiddling with an old shortwave radio in his dorm, he intercepted a signal, the Classified. It was faint at first, riddled with static, but the words were undeniable: “They know.” Signed only by The Archivist. From that moment, Julian’s life bent into a new shape. He abandoned lectures, stopped turning in papers, and started haunting the dusty corners of the city library. He carried notebooks filled with coded messages, half-drawn maps, and the symbol of an eye scratched in dozens of variations. He believes he is being watched—and worse, that others are being erased. His friends whisper about how he mutters in class, how his eyes dart to the corners of the room as though expecting shadows to step forward. Now, Julian roams the town with a messenger bag stuffed with cassette tapes, decoded transcripts, and clippings of seemingly unrelated newspaper stories. His once-polished university attire has given way to dishevelled jackets and ink-stained cuffs, though he still wears his academic pin on his lapel, a reminder of who he once was. He records his findings on the same battered radio, convinced it doubles as both receiver and transmitter. Julian is searching for The Archivist, whoever—or whatever—they are. He is convinced the message wasn’t just a warning, but an invitation. And though he doesn’t yet know what “They” want, he’s certain the truth is hidden between static and silence, waiting for him to tune in.

Milo Ferris

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By day, Milo Ferris is just another blur on a scooter, weaving through Hollowford with a heatproof bag strapped to his back, delivering pizzas with an easy grin. People wave when they see him pass; he knows every street, every shortcut, every broken stoplight. But Milo carries more than mozzarella and pepperoni—he carries secrets. It started late one night, after a long shift, when his radio crackled with something unexpected. Not Nina Calder’s familiar midnight playlist, but another frequency entirely—an FM channel hidden deep in static. She called it “Classified.” Her voice was the same but sharper, clipped, charged with a different energy. She spoke not of music but of strange events, coded warnings, and whispers of things happening just beyond the ordinary: missing cats with glowing collars, haunted arcades, flickering lights near the woods, and a “festival setlist” that wasn’t just music but a signal. Milo became obsessed. Every delivery turned into a scavenger hunt, his ears tuned for patterns in Nina’s words. He started mapping her clues on napkins, menus, even pizza boxes. And he began noticing how right she was—about the mayor’s odd disappearances, about the locked cellar beneath Town Hall, about the way the wind sometimes carried voices. On the outside, he’s the same laid-back delivery rider: quick with jokes, happy to recommend the “Ferris Special” (extra olives, extra chaos). But in quiet moments, when he cuts his engine in the middle of the night, he feels like the only one listening to a conversation not meant for him. The weight of it thrills and terrifies him—because once you know too much in this town, you can’t un-know it. Now Milo drives faster than ever, as if the whole town depends on a pizza boy who stumbled onto the wrong frequency.

Nina Calder

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When the town of Hollowford's lights have gone out, Nina Calder, the midnight DJ, takes to the airwaves. Her voice is soft and smoky, carrying a kind of warmth that makes insomniacs, night-shift workers, and restless dreamers feel like someone is awake with them. Her booth is tucked above the old post office, strung with fairy lights and stacks of vinyl she’s scavenged from thrift shops and attic donations. She greets listeners like old friends—“If you’re tuning in now, you’re part of the night crowd. Let’s make it a good one.” Nina’s playlist is a mix of the unexpected: lo-fi jazz slipping into retro synth, folk ballads weaving into obscure covers. She says music at midnight should feel like wandering through alleys you don’t usually walk, finding something you didn’t know you needed. And the town agrees. People whisper that her show has saved relationships, quieted panic attacks, even inspired spontaneous poetry scratched onto diner napkins. Every morning, she signs off just as Marla and her "Toast and Talk" show air. The two trade playlists and equipment, , though they’ve never met in person. Their invisible partnership feels like a relay—Nina carrying the dark hours, Marla ushering in the light. Recently, the mayor himself tuned in, unable to sleep, and declared that Nina’s playlists had to set the tone for the summer festival. At first she laughed, thinking it was a joke, but when the official letter arrived with the seal of the town, she realized her midnight musings would soon echo across the square in broad daylight. The thought makes her both thrilled and nervous. The night is her safe place, where her voice is unassuming and intimate. Daylight feels louder, exposed. Still, she’s begun curating something special—songs to carry the magic of midnight into the heat of summer afternoons, blending the secret hush of her show with the town’s joy. If the night belongs to Nina, maybe, just this once, the day can too.

Saffron Bale

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Her name is Saffron Bale, though most of the town only knows her as “the Cat Lady with the Phone.” She moved into town of Hollowford a year ago, blending quietly into its rhythms, until she noticed the stray tabby—Marmalade—who lounged across shop windows, slinked through alleyways, and somehow appeared in half the townsfolk’s photos. With a clever mix of wit and patience, Saffron began documenting Marmalade’s daily escapades online: basking on the grocer’s scale, interrupting the florist’s displays, inspecting the mayor’s bicycle. What started as lighthearted fun quickly turned into a phenomenon. Now, Marmalade’s account has more followers than the town’s official tourism page. People travel just to spot him. And then the rumor began—whispered first in jest, then repeated with startling seriousness: Marmalade is running for mayor. Saffron leaned into it. She began “releasing statements” on Marmalade’s behalf: policies about more sunbeams, longer naps, and universal snack distribution. Posters appeared with his face and the slogan, “A Mayor for All Paws.” Suddenly, people weren’t sure if it was a joke anymore. Saffron thrives in this blur between humor and hope. She’s quiet in person, but sharp, with eyes that sparkle whenever she’s crafting a new post. She spends mornings chasing Marmalade with her camera, afternoons fielding messages from curious journalists, and evenings in cafés drafting “official campaign updates.” She knows the cat can’t truly be mayor, but she loves what the idea has done—how it’s made the town laugh together, root for something harmless and joyful, and even argue (in good spirits) about feline leadership. To Saffron, managing Marmalade’s image isn’t just about social media. It’s about giving her small town a story, something magical that makes people believe, even for a moment, that politics could be soft-pawed and purring

Maribel Vance

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In the heart of the sunlit town square, Maribel Vance held her head high, chin tilted at that perfect “I know what I’m talking about” angle. Known among the locals as the unofficial fashion critic of Hollowford, she had a sharp eye for detail and a sharper tongue for commentary. Perched on the fountain’s edge most days, she would sip iced coffee, quietly rating outfits as passersby crossed the cobblestones. From bold floral prints to tragic sock-and-sandal pairings, nothing escaped her notice. Today, she was dressed to impress—summer sunlight catching on her golden earrings, the pastel blooms on her dress as bright as the market stalls behind her. A yellow belt cinched her waist just so, her short brown hair bouncing with every confident step. She was certain she’d be the most stylish creature in the square… until it happened. From between the café tables strutted her challenger: a plump white duck, waddling with unnerving poise. It wore a perfectly tailored tweed vest, complete with tiny brass buttons. The crowd parted. Gasps were heard. Someone whispered, "That's Giorgio… the duck." Maribel accepted the unspoken challenge without hesitation. They faced off on the cobblestones, her heels clicking, his webbed feet slapping in defiance. She twirled, she posed, she gave the kind of over-the-shoulder glance that had once silenced an entire book club. But Giorgio? He pivoted with a flourish, flapped his wings in an impeccable display of volume and drama, and—just to twist the knife—shook out a pocket square from his vest. The crowd erupted in applause. Maribel’s smile never faltered, but her pride took the hit. That day, she learned a hard truth: in Bellavita, even the best-dressed human could be outclassed… by a duck.

Ezra Cole

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Ezra Cole had lived in Hollowford for only a month, but the locals already knew him as the sidewalk artist. It wasn’t just a hobby—he was officially licensed by the town to decorate the streets for the summer season. The laminated permit in his wallet made it feel like both a job and a privilege, and Ezra approached it with the quiet pride of someone who knew he was adding color to people’s lives. Most mornings, he’d set up in a sunny patch of pavement, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and paint-splattered jeans that told the story of a hundred drawings. His straw hat kept the glare off his face as he knelt on the warm concrete, opening a dented tin full of well-worn chalk sticks. Today’s spot was outside the old post office—a broad, clean stretch of sidewalk perfect for something big. He started with bold sweeps of blue and green, mapping out a ring of lily pads. With patient, deliberate strokes, he added ripples in pale aqua, then dotted in bursts of pink for flowers. His hands moved with the confidence of long practice, but there was still a boyish light in his eyes, the kind that came from making something just for the joy of it. When he drew the final curve in yellow across the center, the air above the chalk seemed to ripple. Ezra frowned, leaning back on his heels. And then it happened— A frog landed right in the middle of his design. Then another. Then half a dozen more. They gathered without hesitation, hopping into the pattern as though they’d been waiting for an invitation. Within moments, they were leaping in synchronized arcs, spinning and switching places in perfect rhythm, their tiny feet slapping softly against the pastel surface. Passersby slowed to watch, smiling and whispering, phones held high to capture the spectacle. Ezra just sat there, elbows on his knees, grinning like a man who’d stumbled into magic. When the frogs finally hopped away, he picked up a fresh stick of chalk. Eager to start his next piece of art.