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?

Rukas stood there, his hand still offered, waiting. His gaze, however, had changed. No longer amused, it now studied her carefully, like a man flipping through the pages of a book he hadn't quite expected to enjoy, but now couldn't put down.


Seven's fingers lightly brushed against his.


"I'm… Seven," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just Seven."


He gave a faint nod. "A name like that doesn't need anything else. It carries itself."


She blushed and looked away, a small smile betraying her attempt to stay composed.


"Rukas!" a voice called from across the inn's lawn, distant but insistent.


He flinched—just a flicker of irritation in his eyes.


"Nalson," he muttered under his breath, the name landing like a bitter aftertaste. Always showing up at the worst possible moment.


But Rukas didn't turn. Instead, with a flick of his fingers—elegant, almost careless—he moved them through the air as though shooing away a fly.


And everything become silent, completely. 


The lanterns froze mid-flicker. A couple who had been laughing behind them were frozen in place, their mouths half-open, like living statues. Even the wind seemed to forget how to move.


She looked around, blinking, trying to understand. Then she looked back at Rukas.


"Didn't feel like being interrupted," he said softly, as if it were the most natural explanation in the world.


"But… what did you do?" she asked, the edges of her voice beginning to tremble.


"Just paused the moment," he replied gently. "We don't get many of them in a lifetime, do we?"


He hadn't quieted a few voices. He had quieted the world. 


Her chest tightened. She took a slow step back.


This was real power—raw, effortless, unsettling. The kind born not of myths or bedtime tales, but of something ancient and alive.


She could barely breathe. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her dress.


"Who… who are you?" she asked, her voice a whisper swallowed by fear.


The question hung in the still air like the toll of a distant bell.


Rukas's smile didn't fade, but his eyes changed again—darker now, unreadable. He took a breath as if considering how much truth to offer.


And then he stepped forward, ever so slightly, his shadow folding into hers.


"Would you believe me," he said quietly.


Chapter 7 - Would you believe me