Love at the Window

High in the hush of the mountains, there is a village so quiet, it might slip your memory like a dream. It’s a place where people rise with the sun, knead dough with care, and listen closely to the wind—not for messages, but for weather.



A girl named as - Seven, lives there. She bakes. She watches. She wonders.



And one morning, there’s a letter.

No name. Just paper. Ink. A few words that shouldn’t mean anything—but do. It mentions a cake. The way she stood near the well. It sounds like poetry. Or a trick. Or perhaps something older than both.



More letters follow, each one tucked carefully beneath the rosemary pot on her window ledge—high, out of reach, untouched by human eye. They arrive with dawn, say just enough, and leave more unsaid. The handwriting is neat. The tone is warm. And whoever he is, he knows her—or thinks he does.

He calls himself Rukas Carlov.



Mysterious. Atmospheric. Laced with quiet longing and hidden history, Letters Beneath the Rosemary Pot is a slow-blooming tale of two souls reaching across silence—through ink, sugar, and shadow. A love story, perhaps. Or maybe just the beginning of something stranger.



Come for the letters. Stay for the silence between them.





A glimpse into the story :

____________________________________________________________



To the Sweet Baker,



I see my first letter ended up hanging outside your window like forgotten laundry. Charming. I must admit, I was touched—touched in the way one might be by a cold breeze at dawn.



But, of course, I understand your caution. A stranger leaving mysterious letters at your window might appear suspicious. Especially one who speaks of your cake with far too much enthusiasm.



I won’t say I’m hurt, but I had hoped my words would find a warmer reception. And yes, I’d love another bite of that cake—without the toothpick this time, of course. A simple request, surely?



I’ll leave it to you, then, to decide how to respond to my humble confessions.



Yours in cold drafts and crumbs,

—The Still-Wounded Admirer

____________________________________________________________



Seven blinked at the letter for a long moment, her brow furrowing. She couldn’t help but smile at the sender’s audacity. Who was this person, and why were they so... bold?