EKANSHHPATEL

In the late 1800s, amidst the rolling hills of Yorkshire, twenty-two-year-old Eleanor Whitmore longs for a life beyond societal expectations. Born into privilege but constrained by rigid traditions, Eleanor's spirit refuses to be tamed. When she discovers her late mother’s secret diary revealing a hidden past filled with passion, courage, and rebellion, Eleanor embarks on a journey of self-discovery.
With nothing but her wits and an old map, she travels to Scotland’s rugged Highlands in search of her mother's lost legacy. Along the way, she crosses paths with Rowena, a fiercely independent botanist who teaches her to find freedom in nature and strength in herself.
Together, they uncover ancient secrets, face personal demons, and find a love that challenges everything Eleanor thought she knew about herself and her world.
Whispers of the Wildflower is a story of courage, forbidden love, and the unyielding power of women who dare to dream beyond the horizon.

Whispers of the Wildflower

The morning was slow, the kind that made every movement feel heavier, as though the world itself had woken up reluctantly. Eleanor sat by the small wooden table in her cottage, fingers curled around a cup of tea she hadn't yet sipped. The steam curled up in delicate wisps, disappearing into the dim light of dawn.

The previous night lingered in her mind. Callum's words, the stillness they had shared. She hadn't expected him to understand the way her thoughts tangled, but somehow, he did. And yet, there was a distance between them that neither of them had dared to address.

A knock at the door startled her. She placed the cup down carefully before rising to answer.

Callum stood there, his coat dusted with the early morning mist, dark curls damp and unruly. He looked as if he had been walking for a while.

"You're up early," she murmured, stepping aside to let him in.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, brushing past her with a familiarity that made her chest ache.

He moved around her small home like he belonged there, like it wasn't just a place he visited but one he understood. He reached for the kettle, wordlessly pouring himself a cup of tea, and Eleanor found herself watching the way his hands moved—steady, sure.

"What's on your mind?" she finally asked.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip, gaze fixed on the window where the morning light barely stretched across the fields.

"I don't like feeling like I'm waiting for something," he said finally.

Eleanor frowned. "What do you mean?"

Callum set his cup down, exhaling as he turned to face her fully. "You hold yourself back, Eleanor. You always have."

"Isn't it?" His voice was quiet but firm. "You let people in just enough, but never all the way. You listen, but you don't always let yourself be heard. And when something matters, really matters, you pretend it doesn't."

Eleanor's fingers curled against the fabric of her sleeve. He wasn't wrong. But hearing it said aloud felt like something cracking open inside her.

"I don't do it on purpose," she admitted.

"I know." His expression softened. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

Silence settled between them, heavy but not suffocating.

Eleanor swallowed, her voice quieter when she spoke again. "I don't want to be afraid of needing people."

Callum studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Then don't be."

It sounded so simple when he said it. But for the first time, Eleanor thought—maybe, just maybe—it was.

Chapter 22: The Space Between Us