In Wistoria, a dreamy lakeside town, a reserved bookseller and a passionate artist cross paths, revealing the quiet beauty of unspoken emotions. As their romance blooms amid whispers of autumn leaves and moonlit confessions, their connection is tested by silence and separation. A bittersweet exploration of love, solitude, and the longing that lingers when words fail.
Opening question: Why are you so quiet?
If I had a penny for every time someone asked me that question, I'd own half of Wistoria by now. I’m Edwin Hayworth, resident introvert and bookseller of our little lakeside village. My silence unsettles people. It makes them fidget, talk louder, or fill the space with unnecessary words. “Why are you so quiet?” they ask, and I smile politely.
The truth is:
- I refuse to gossip; that constitutes most conversations.
- Silence is beautiful.
- Small talk bores me.
- I don’t talk for the sake of it.
- I am more open in my quiet than most are with words.
- My inner world is more vibrant than anything external.
It is not an affliction. It is a way of life.
What makes Wistoria so special?
Wistoria is the kind of place where time slows down. The village nestles around a silver lake, where swans glide silently across its still surface. The cobblestone streets are flanked by centuries-old buildings cloaked in ivy, and the air always smells faintly of ash trees.It is a place where gossip flows more freely than tea at The Velvet Quill, the only café-bookstore worth visiting.Even in winter, the scent of fresh bread from Henrietta’s Bakery mingles with the crisp air.
If you have ever been told, “Why are you so quiet?” with a hint of judgment or pity, this story might strike a chord. Here is the thing about me: I don’t speak unless I must. Silence is not a deficiency; it is a radical choice—in a world obsessed with chatter.
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The villagers, though charming, are incorrigible gossips. Conversations spill over in The Velvet Quill, the bookshop-café I manage. Here, patrons whisper about everything, from romantic entanglements to who forgot to pay their butcher’s bill. If you linger too long, you will learn who has fallen out with whom, who bought a suspiciously large sack of sugar, and whose nephew may or may not have been caught sneaking out of the apothecary’s daughter’s window.
It is an odd place to be a quiet man. But it is home.I have learned to nod politely and say as little as possible.
Society judges the quiet harshly, but silence is my refuge.
How did Amara change everything?
The first time I met Amara, I was seated on my usual bench by the lake. It was an autumn morning, the kind that turns the world golden.
She was a vision in red—a long coat, a scarf that billowed as she walked, and auburn curls that gleamed like fire. She was sketching by the lake when our paths first crossed.
“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” she said, settling beside me uninvited.
“It is,” I replied.
“I am Amara,” she said, holding out her hand. “And you are...?”
“Edwin.”
“Nice to meet you, Edwin. Are you always this chatty, or is this a special occasion?”
Her laughter lingered as she resumed sketching, but from that day on, she sought me out.
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What happens when opposites collide?
Amara was the village’s new enigma. She rented a small flat above Henrietta’s Bakery and spent her days sketching Wistoria’s landscapes. She frequented The Velvet Quill, where she often cornered me.
“Why don’t you ever gossip?” she asked one day, leaning over the counter.
“I find it pointless,” I replied, shelving a worn copy of The Odyssey.
“But it is fun,” she teased. “You would know if you ever tried it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you would know the joy of silence if you ever tried that.”
Her laugh echoed through the shop. “Touché.”
Despite our differences—or perhaps because of them—Amara became my closest companion.
Can silence attract?
Amara wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. Amara's presence became a regular occurrence. She had a knack for filling silences with vivid stories: her travels to bustling metropolises, her encounters with eccentric strangers, her dream of painting something truly eternal.
I, on the other hand, observed her with quiet fascination. She was everything I wasn’t—vibrant, impulsive, loud. Her laugh echoed through the café as she teased me for my reserved nature.
“You know,” she mused one evening over lavender tea at The Velvet Quill, “you are a bit like this town. Quiet, mysterious, but oddly magnetic.”
“Why are you so quiet?” she asked one rainy afternoon, peering over the counter as I catalogued books.
“Talking isn’t always necessary,” I said.
“It is if you want people to stop thinking you are a serial killer,” she teased.
Despite her playful jabs, she kept returning. Over cups of lavender tea, she shared her life—her travels, her art, her longing to paint something eternal. I shared little, but she seemed content to fill the silence herself.
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Why are the quiet ones misunderstood?
“Why are you so quiet?” she again asked one chilly evening. We were walking along the lake, the wind tugging at her scarf.
“I don’t enjoy talking for the sake of it,” I admitted. “Small talk bores me. Gossip repels me. I think silence has its own beauty.”
She stopped and stared at me, her hazel eyes searching mine. “That is the most you have said all week,” she quipped. Then she added, softly, “I think I like it.”
What happens when silence meets passion?
Amara was persistent in her pursuit of connection. One night, she dragged me out of my comfort zone with a bottle of blackberry wine. The café was empty, the only light coming from flickering candles. The rain hammered against the windows, and the candlelight danced on her freckled skin.
“I think you are hiding something,” she said, pouring us both a glass of blackberry wine.
“What could I possibly be hiding?”
“Your words. Your thoughts. You act like silence is your superpower.”
“Maybe it is,” I said.
She laughed. “Do you ever wonder what people think of you?”
“Rarely. People think far too much and say even more.”
Her laughter softened. “You are impossible, you know that?”
“Let us toast to opposites,” she declared, her cheeks flushed from the wine.
“To what end?” I asked dryly.
“To this end.” She leaned forward and kissed me, her lips tasting of berries and mischief.
It was the first time I realised silence could be broken without words.
It was a kiss that unravelled me—soft but insistent, her hands in my hair, her breath mingling with mine. The world outside ceased to exist.
“Edwin,” she murmured, pulling away slightly, “you’re full of surprises.”
We spent that night together, tangled in each other’s arms on the worn velvet couch of the café. Her touch was like fire, her whispers like poetry. She traced the lines of my face, my shoulders, my soul.
“You are beautiful,” she said softly.
“So are you.”
What did we discover in each other?
Amara’s passion for life was infectious. She painted with abandon, often pulling me into her world of colour.
“Hold still,” she commanded one morning, her brush poised mid-air.
“What exactly are you painting?”
“You,” she said simply. “Or rather, the quiet in you.”
I chuckled. “Does it have a shape?”
“Not yet. But it will.”
Her sketches filled my flat—portraits of me lost in thought, landscapes of Wistoria’s serene lake, and even a few intimate scenes of us tangled in bedsheets, bathed in morning light.
Can love bridge the gap between words and silence?
As autumn deepened into winter, our connection grew. She painted my quiet moments by the lake, capturing the essence of my stillness.
“Why do you stay so still?” she asked one day as she worked on a portrait.
“Because the world moves enough for both of us,” I replied.
Her laughter was the only response I needed.
What happens when love is not enough?
What does it mean to lose someone?
The bell tower tolled as her train disappeared into the mist. The day she left, Wistoria felt emptier than ever. She left behind her sketchbook, a treasure trove of memories. On the last page, she had written:
How do you live with the quiet of loss?
I still visit the lake, her sketchbook a constant companion. The ash trees whisper in the wind, but her absence roars louder than any storm.I imagine her painting sunsets in Paris or sketching street performers in Istanbul.
Love, I have learned, isn’t about filling silence—it is about finding someone who cherishes it with you. Sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me, the quiet bookseller who showed her a different kind of world.
Frequently asked questions
Why do introverts prefer silence?
How can opposites maintain a relationship?
Can silence strengthen relationships?
Why are introverts often misunderstood?
Why do people ask, “Why are you so quiet?”
Silence unsettles many because it’s unfamiliar. People often mistake it for aloofness or indifference, though it’s usually introspection.
How do opposites attract?
Opposites balance each other by offering contrasting perspectives, strengths, and experiences.
Tushar Mangl - Author of Ardika and I Will Do It. Writes on personal finance, Vastu, mental health, food, leisure, and a greener, better society.
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