private eyes!

Q shakes their head slowly, "That can't be right." Not from someone grown up in the Springs and who has likely eaten at Granny's at least one or twice in their life time. Now, he supposes that perhaps they just never ordered the hush puppies from Granny before but Q has tried at least everything on the menu there by the time he was twelve. Certainly other people have as well.

Still begs the question, though: Who is this mysterious lady? If she’s never had hush puppies, she must be an out-of-towner, right? But Q’s surprise might indicate the contrary—a Bleeding Hearts resident who has never once tried Granny’s hush puppies. How that could’ve happened is a bigger mystery than anything she’s ever encountered in this town. She simply must know more.

“Never had hush puppies?” She can scarcely hide how incredulous she is. “Not even once? Like, maybe tried them and didn’t know that’s what they were called?” Her brows are knitted, nearly meeting in the middle of her head with how gobsmacked she is. “You’re right. That can’t be right.”

She’s still thinking about it as they step through the doors of T&T, the bells jingling to signal their arrival. Artie is behind the counter today, but the place is especially busy, so he only has time for a quick wave and a hollered “Welcome!” over the thrum of conversation and bluegrass playing softly over the speakers.

There's no tact, even in Wendy's thoughts as she meanders around the festival, the sugar rush victims slowly crashing the crowd one by one. The red, crusted mouths of children dressed as various bugs and flowers are now yawning instead of yapping out loud to the ether about the gilded costumes around the square -- she caught a glimpse of a decked out dragonfly of a girl curling up against the lemonade stand as she grabbed her nth cup. No couth to be found at her feet, one grubby hand pawing at some stuffed monstrosity, but Wendy can't blame the kid; she remembers how crazy she'd go initially on Spirit's Eve and the summer carnival, only to fall asleep in her dad's arms halfway through.

She's getting sidetracked, but it's okay; as she's turning on her heel, she spots the flurry of red hair that makes her heart nearly swell out of happiness. Her favorite little bird, Miss Patty Finch, perched atop a bench as if it was her throne. Wendy nearly skips towards the sunshine that is her friend, butterfly wings bouncing at her back with each step. If anyone can skyrocket her mood, it's Patty.

But she’s allowed herself to fall into blind belief in one specific area. Somehow, the world brought forth two girls at the same time in the same small town, just so they could be each other’s best friends.

The hand in hers is comfortable, familiar, and had been absent for far too many years. They are meant to be here, together, in whimsical outfits under the hot summer sun. If that isn’t true, then this world makes much less sense than she thought.

“I was lookin’ for Greg! You’d think it’s impossible for him to get lost in a crowd, but somehow, he finds a way,” she says through a playful-but-incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “He’s probably wrapped up with Q. And you—“ she points a finger at Wendy, “were my priority anyhow.”

There’s a tip-toed peek in the direction of the fortune-telling tent, tucked behind a line of other vendors. Thankfully, it still looks pretty barren. So Patty starts pulling Wendy’s hand, taking the lead.

"It's nice to see a familiar face! I was expectin' a city slicker or two, I just wasn't expectin' to know any of 'em," she snorts, bending down and digging out a worm from the flower pot she'd restocked early this morning. "I usually bait the first worm and unhook the first fish for ya, just so you can see how it's done. And sometimes they'll swallow the hook... Um, if that happens, I'll just... we'll worry 'bout it when we get to it."

But Patty holds no ill will toward anyone, really, unless given reason. And it’s quite rare that there is reason enough for her to shut someone out completely—she’s a curious person to her core, and unkind people are typically like that because of something buried in their backstories. But Lydia is decidedly not unkind. Just a little odd. And… smelly, at times, but that’s rural life, right?

“Sounds good to me. I’m just here to learn.” And learning is exactly what she’s doing, watching intensely as Lydia grabs a worm barehanded, twists it in two, stabs each piece through the silver hooks. It’s impressive, truly—she moves quickly, deftly, with no disgust around handling a live worm, no fear of pricking herself. It's as natural as breathing.

"Mostly just another feather, although Meemaw would be pretty darn happy if I showed up with a fresh trout." Although she doesn't live in her family home anymore, she still stops by for supper nearly every evening. And even though she would end up eating exclusively sides, seeing as trout is pretty disgusting, it'd be worth it to see Meemaw get all bright and excited, pulling out her recipe cards. (And the sides are always delicious, anyway.)

"It's impressive, by the way. Your fishin', I mean. It's a cool skill for a girl to have, y'know? Feel like you only ever hear about fishermen." She shakes her head. "Always with the men."

Hiro’s belief in the supernatural died the day he found out Santa Claus wasn’t real, which happened to be about the same time he moved to America from Japan, which happened to be about the same time he stopped living with his parents. The people he stayed with did not care to cultivate the magic of belief in him but they sure did everything in their power to make sure their own child believed in Santa Claus for as long as possible and impressed upon a young Hiro how important it was to let their younger child believe in the same. Hiro didn’t keep his mouth shut. Christmases became a turbulent season.

Patty’s belief in the supernatural doesn’t come freely. She’s a woman who lives by cold, hard facts. She’d stopped believing in Santa the year she learned how to read—Santa’s handwriting sure did look like Pops’, and Greg was awfully bad at hiding his facial expressions when she asked him, point blank, if Santa was real.

But she still kept the secret for the rest of the kids, of course. She’s not a monster!

“See, that’s what they want you to think.” She taps her head thoughtfully. “Pass it off as urban legend so the townsfolk don’t get too worried.” There’s a brief moment, journal held to her chest, before she decides to share the pages, holding it out so he can see. She won’t let this initial skepticism deter her.

There’s a title at the top—THE DARK CREATURE written in bold lettering—although it’s clear that the information is much more extensive than what can be seen on this two-page spread.

They're doing a milk bottle game for the hell of it, but, yeah, no, that bottom row is sturdy. Patty pops into their periphery as they're taking their last shot. “Oh!” they exclaim, followed by a, “crap,” as their ball goes wide.

Game now over, they turn to the newcomer, and their eyes light up in recognition. “Patty, hey! Yeah, Wendy's been talking about you and your homecoming. I'm alright,” they shrug, “still kicking.” They're immediately filled with regret at their words as their mind jumps to Efa. They quickly fix their face. “How are you doing, though? How's your family?”

But that’s beside the point. Arden is here, all smiles and warmth and—

Then there’s the slightest glint of sadness in her expression, quickly fixed as they press on, talking about their tattoos.

What was that?

“Ah, these old things?” She glances down at her floral embroidered boots—a beloved find from a Zuzu City thrift shop. “Thank you! Feels good to be wearin’ whatever I want again. You should get another tattoo, by the way. Suits ya.”

“The family’s doin’ good. Greg’s his usual Greggish self, and not much has changed with Meemaw either,” she shares through a soft smile. Although she’s happy to see that some things have shifted in the Springs, it’s nice to fall back into the comfortable familiarity of family.

If there’s one thing Patty has learned through the years, it’s patience. You can’t rush straight to the desired topic—small talk is necessary, especially in the Springs.

Another month coming to an end, another festival. It’s nothing like home except for that of the vibe, which is airy and jubilant, and Andie’s soaking up all she can get, stealing drinks and snapping little pictures and— oh my god. She zooms in on the last one, spotting a mess of red hair dressed like Stevie Nicks, accompanied by a dead stare into the camera. What the hell is Chappell Roan doing here?

Andie looks up, squinting around before spotting her. She’s got a sly ease to her demeanor, and a notable intentionality about her outfit that most others are lacking, and she’s ungracefully balancing her phone, vape, and drink before running over, shouting out a “hey, diva!” on her way for good measure. “Oh my god, I just have to tell you, this is so cute,” she compliments expeditiously, sparkly nails flitting up to adjust curls as she catches her breath. “Like, you are just giving me star quality, here. Can I get a twirl?”

She'd clocked Andie Cherry snapping photos almost immediately; they have yet to be properly introduced, but of course, she knows all the important details. From Gem City, party girl, flirting around town in a way that is both impressive and enviable.

And then said party girl is on the move, balancing an absolute array of items in order to rush over to... her? Patty? A diva? That's not a label she's ever been given in a positive way, so she's honored.

"Of course! Got a few more things I need to pick up for Meemaw, anyhow. Much more pleasant with company."

She knows she wrote 9 on the bulletin board, but she just can't help herself when she's out before the clock even strikes 8, the eagerness of potential interaction brightening her steps across the dock of the fishing post. It's deliciously overcast, with Papaw off on another one of his Grampleton catfishing retreats, and she has full reign of the post, a treat she intends to take advantage of.

And only her, apparently. She probably should've expected this, but it still stings a little when it's nearing 11 and she's still alone, drowsiness setting in as she sits ruefully against the edge of the dock, yawning away. Probably would've been more accurate (and embarrassing) to put up a 'come hang out with me' sign on the bulletin board instead, and she tries to blame it on the fact that nobody wants to fish anymore.

It's not until the creak of wood wakes her out of her unintentional snoozing, a soggy half-sandwich in her lap and drool pooling against the dock, startling awake with all the enthusiasm of a dog in a shock collar. While she's expecting an unfamiliar face, she has to shove her glasses up and squint just to make sure she's seeing correctly. Is that— "Patty Finch..?"

So when she sees Lydia's scrawled note pinned to the bulletin board—a girl she hasn't spoken to since high school, and even then, sparingly—she figures this is a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

It's 11:10 on the dot when she arrives—she headed straight over from Pure Valley, where she was neck deep in piles of terribly inaccurate paperwork. She's still got her briefcase in hand, which she sets down against the worn wood of the fishing shack. The smell has already hit her nose, strong and salty, but she's dedicated to the knowledge.

And there's Lydia, looking exactly the same as Patty remembers. Big, curly hair, well-loved vintage clothing, fishing boots nearly up to her knees. And that same sweet, earnest demeanor. Of course, Lydia was always a little strange, but glass houses, and all that. Besides, weirdness just makes for a more interesting conversation.

"And the big time hit back," she shakes her head ruefully, although there's a bright smile on her face. "I'm back in town for the time bein', so figured I might as well finally learn to fish. And from the best, no less."

the acoustic tunes flowing from the jukebox are really all tully needed to get excited about being back in her hometown. leaving before she was old enough to drink, she’d never even taken as little as a step into the velvet stag before. a regret she didn’t know she had until she was sitting in front of the bar and ordering her first shot of the lowest priced whiskey on the menu. she was here for one reason and she knew she had to be on her best behavior. even so, a shot wouldn’t hurt anyone. especially tully. the moment the fire finds it’s way into the pit of her stomach, she’s spotted her first victim.

“hey, stranger. you mind if i ask you a few questions about swan lake… it’s for, uh, a documentary i’m filming about lesser known cryptids. and uh, someone told me there’s one right here at your local lake.” tully asks in a hopeful tone. if she were being completely honest to herself, she didn’t know how to go about her investigation. didn’t want to raise any red flags and she didn’t want to get labeled as crazy right off the bat. but how hard could winging this actually be? she’d spent her whole adulthood winging this thing called life and that was no slice of pie with whipped cream on top.

“if you’re not one for talking, i understand… but i got a five dollar bill with your name on it.” a grin paints across tully’s face and before the other person can get a word out. she’s already dumping a pile of useless junk from her pockets upon the surface of the bar. sifting through candy wrappers, receipts, and pennies before finding the wrinkled up face of abraham lincoln. she picks the bill up, stretching out poor abe’s face before sliding it over to the person next to her. and damn, was that luck. for a second, she thought she might have spent the money on a pack of smokes. “and if you’re still not in the mood for questions. i understand that too, believe me, but… i’m gonna need that five back.”

More than anything, though, the Stag is an ideal place for some easy town gossip. Locals three shots deep, after a long day tending the fields or caring for livestock? Bone tired and fueled by booze, they are bound to drop an interesting tidbit or two about what their neighbors have been up to, or some strange things they've heard go bump in the night.

Unfortunately, tonight is a bit slow on that front. Even Greg hasn't come out to knock back his typical Corona—she knows why, of course; he's getting up to some late-night shenanigans with Q. So the dance floor is dead, her drink is down to the last dregs, and she's considering heading back home with her tail between her legs. That's when a stranger plops down next to her—big mop of curly hair, cool clothes matched by an equally cool demeanor—and immediately launches into an introduction about Swan Lake, a documentary, and cryptids.

She picked the right person to ask.

"I'm always in the mood for questions." A true summation of Patty Finch. She loves asking and receiving in equal measure—anything that can reveal an interesting new discovery is game. But before readily handing out any information, she needs to suss out this woman's intentions. (From the meager $5 offer pulled from a pile of loose trash, Patty suspects this is probably an innocent request, but better safe than sorry.)

If there was one thing Ms. Misty Apple knew about mornings, it was that they never went according to plan. Not that she was what you’d call meticulous — Lord no, that wasn’t her style — but she did like to tell herself she was a woman with a system. Four a.m. start for the morning prep, doors open at seven sharp, afternoon prep by ten. It was a rhythm she’d been keeping time with for more years than she cared to count. A person would think, by now, she’d stop being surprised when something went sideways.

And yet, here they were.

The merengue — her beautiful, delicate, perfectly whipped, had-such-potential merengue — had the audacity to collapse in her oven. Betrayal of the highest order. Did it stop to consider her feelings? Her schedule? The tiny, flickering hope she might get through one morning without a crisis? It did not.

But Misty Apple isn't a quitter. She's a fixer. A scrappy, flour-dusted, sleep-deprived problem solver.

What she needs is another set of hands.

Despite making her own hours, Huck rises nearly at the crack of dawn, and she would rather slot him in as early as possible—to be frank, the paperwork at Pure Valley is in an absolute state, and requires more work than she expected. But five years at a big-time accounting firm has developed into a natural habit of springing out of bed at five AM, so she's not too bothered with it.

Besides, it’s nice when the streets are this empty. Although she misses the gossip buried in the idle small-town chatter, it’s much easier to beeline directly to her destination.

But then a familiar voice is calling out from the storefront she’s speed-walking past, accompanied by a soft breeze carrying the scent of baked sugar. Maybe she would be getting some gossip after all.

with: patty ( @mysteriousbook ) & hiro

It had taken some time to get his dirt bike fixed after his little tumble during the storm but it was finally back to being officially street legal. The damage to both himself and the bike were both relatively small. His knee took the worst of it and was decorated with some gnarly road rash and aside from scratches against the body of his bike, the only damage came in the form of a detached side mirror and brake line needing to be replaced. Small things, easy enough to fix, the trouble solely coming from acquiring the parts and waiting for them to get delivered. Now replaced and the sun back out and his knee no longer in agony every time he bent it, Hiro was back out on his bike.

He took it out by the train tracks. The longest stretch of uninterrupted dirt and the train always moved along a schedule so he wasn't worried about it.

He's been out there for the better part of an hour, just messing around, being idle and young and now is taking the turn to go back through the town. Pure Valley Farm to his left, Hiro considers briefly whether he should stop and see if Tanny or Frankie are around to hang out when he sees far off in the distance a figure standing just outside where the turn in for the forest trail begins. Hiro drives by, dirt bike engine grumbling like a wildcat, wild and free. He doesn't recognize this person and continues on. But he still considers Frankie and Tanny and so circles back on the road to go back down the other side.

It's when he's stopping on the side of the road across from the forest entrance that he watches with a small degree of curiosity at what this young woman is doing. Notebook in hand. Careful look of scrutiny. Why's she still just standing there? Hiro pulls his helmet off, dark hair flattened and stuck to his head from sweat so he shakes it loose with his fingers and starts to tie it up into a half up bun at the back like he always does. A dark blue bandana tied around the lower half of his face and neck to protect from the upkick of dirt in the air that always -- always -- comes up through the bottom of the helmet gets pulled down with a tug so he can finally breathe easier, fresh air not already warmed from his own lungs.

It's rare to see Patty without a notebook in hand, pen thoughtfully held between teeth as she watches, listens, takes note of everyone and everything. But this particular notebook is unlike her usual journals; the front page reads "Cryptids & Magical Creatures of Bleeding Hearts Springs." After moving back home, she'd unearthed it from the bottom of her desk drawer—untouched since age eighteen. It would've likely stayed buried, discarded as the whimsies of a teenager in a small town, if she hadn't seen what she'd seen walking past the woods that day. She should've never doubted her younger self! The city really did a number on her self-confidence. It's good to be back.

So now she's at the forest entrance, squinting down at the dirt path. Among the various footprints—hiking boots, sneakers, dog paws—she's noticed something ... odd. Her drawings are never as good as she'd like, but she's doing her best to replicate exactly what she's seeing—a footprint almost devoid of anything distinguishing, almost like someone wearing a clown shoe, but far larger than a human foot. (OK, maybe this drawing isn't that difficult.)

As she squats down, picks up a little dirt between her fingers, brings it up close to her face, she suddenly hears someone call out from the direction of the road. She can't help but jump, rising up from her squat to turn toward the offending party.

She gives him a long, level look and identifies him as Hiro Uehara, who recently moved back to town after his grandmother's passing. She hasn't seen him since he was a teenager. He certainly looks more mature—not the awkward thirteen-year-old she remembers. She'll have to make note of the dirt bike.

with: open to anyone (0/3) & quentin

Q enjoys supporting their local businesses. Everyone is friendly here, at least in their own personal experience having grown up and lived here their entire life. Everyone was a neighbor, everyone was a friend, everyone was connected in some way and that was always something quite nice and Q enjoys things which are quite nice. The walk into town is quite nice. Spring has fully unfurled by this point and sweet blooms are not only their companion in arms -- a selection of aromatic and soft petal tulips in their actual arms -- but also their companions as they walk. Town's sidewalks lined with bursts of wildflowers and the like all coming to one rich point in the center of town.

They'd just dropped off some flowers at the Town Hall for all the hard working folks over there who keep the town afloat, and to the library for everything they do. Also to Thistle & Thread and of course, Q had to pop into Granny's to leave some tulips for her, left with an appropriate staff member they knew would relay the flowers to dear Granny and not allow a single one to wither in the heat of the kitchen.

Their route now leads them toward the Happy Apple and Jumpin' Beans. Their final stop before going back to their home On The Vine to meet with Teagan for a light lunch and catch up. They don't intend to stay long, just long enough to deliver the last of their flowers.

The city might have more—more shops, more nightlife, certainly more people—but as she offers sunny smiles and bright greetings to familiar passersby, listening in on quiet conversations had during the lull of a sleepy afternoon, toting a wicker basket full of local produce for Meemaw’s pot roast, she knows for certain the city will never have more heart.

No one is a more shining example of this than Q. She’s only been back for three weeks, but they’ve made it feel like she never even left—falling back into old cadences as easily as breathing. Of course, she’d seen him on holidays and other visits back to town, but living here again, running into each other on errands around town—well, it’s brought a warmth back to her life that she’d been missing.

“Awwww, Q!” The flowers are fresh-picked and pristine, entirely unlike the slightly wilty offerings at city flower shops. "I got the perfect vase for these back at home—thank you." She takes them into her arms gratefully, nestles them into her basket next to a bundle of colorful carrots and a leather-bound journal full of scribbled notes about town goings-on.