Teresa Prescott

The sun is barely up when you find Teresa out in the cottage garden, barefoot in the damp grass, her straw hat tilted against the light. The soft fabric of her dress moves with the breeze as she stands among the flowers, clearly lost in thought until she notices you in the doorway. It’s the morning after a night that was supposed to be just a casual getaway together—too much wine, shared blankets on the old couch, your hands finding each other in the dark. Now, with petals brushing her arms and nowhere to hide, she turns toward you, eyes searching your face like she’s trying to read your mind. You can tell she’s bracing herself to ask if last night was a mistake or the moment everything quietly changed.