“I wouldn’t dismiss it so quickly, Cal,” Sharon pipes up, her hazel eyes twinkling. “There might be some truth in it. We’ve seen weirder things happen.”
The other locals nod solemnly, their features bathed in the warm light from the pub’s hearth. “Aye, like when old Fraser Mcloughlin swore he spotted a phantom piper on the Firth,” Hamish chimes in, his words wrapped in a thick Scottish accent.
“Or when that girl insisted she was whisked away by fairies from our church on top of the hill,” Cameron pitches in before taking a hearty gulp of his whisky.
I lean forward eagerly, my elbows resting on the aged wooden table. “So what’s your verdict? Is this Loch Portal real or just a tall tale people spin around here?”
The debate breaks loose. Some argue fervently for its authenticity, citing ancient texts and family lorepassed down through generations, while others remain skeptical, pointing out the lack of solid proof and how stories tend to get exaggerated over time.
In the middle of all this chaos, Cal watches me. “What about ye, Mills?” he asks, cutting through all other voices. “What do ye believe?”
I hesitate, my thoughts swirling like a twister. Part of me wants to brush this off as pure fantasy and retreat to my safe, logical world. But the other part, the one that’s always been attracted to enigmas and magic, yearns to embrace it as a possibility.
“I think,” I start slowly, “that there are things in this world that we can’t see or explain. And maybe, just maybe, the Loch Portal is one of those things.”
The pub bursts into cheers and laughter, and glasses clink together to celebrate the unknown. I join in, feeling an overwhelming sense of camaraderie and shared wonderment, and I find myself grinning wider than ever before.
I may not have all the answers yet, but right now, surrounded by Scotland’s enchanting charm and the promise of adventure, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
As the animated discussion begins to fade out, curiosity gets the better of me. “So where should I go to explore some of this history myself?” My pen hovers over my notebook, ready for action.
The locals exchange knowing glances.
“Well, lass,” Mac replies, “ye can’t go wrong withUrquhart Castle. It’s just around here on Loch Ness’s banks.”
His wife nods enthusiastically. “Aye, don’t forget about Clava Cairns either. Those ancient stone circles have a magic of their own.”
I scribble furiously, trying to keep up with their suggestions: Culloden Battlefield, where the Jacobite uprising met its tragic end; Inverness Museum and Art Gallery, with its vast collection of artifacts and stories; Inverness’s winding streets, where history seems to whisper from every cobblestone.
As I write down each suggestion, excitement washes over me. These aren’t just names on a map; they’re doorways into history waiting for me to step through them. Each recommendation feels like a key handed over to me to unlock their secrets.
I glance at Cal, curious to know if he can feel the buzz of anticipation zinging through my veins. But he’s lost in some deep chat with his brother, their heads huddled together over an inside joke. I pivot back to the locals, my grin stretching wider. “Thank you,” I tell them earnestly. “I’m stoked to explore all these places myself.”
Moira extends her hand and gives mine a gentle pat, her eyes crinkling in a warm smile. “Make sure ye do that, sweetheart. And once ye’ve done all that, swing by and spill all the details. We’ll be here, eager for yer tales.”
I nod, swallowing down an unexpected lump inmy throat. It’s odd how this group, strangers to me only four hours ago, has made me feel so embraced, so at home. With renewed resolve, I stash my notebook into my bag and rise from my seat, ready to dive headfirst into whatever adventures lay sprawled ahead of me. And as I do so, I can’t resist peeking at my trusty combat boots that have weathered countless twists and turns with me.
Maybe it sounds goofy, but there’s this nagging feeling that they’ve led me here on purpose, that somehow, they’ll guide me towards the story destined for me.
The evening wraps up,and Cal and I say our goodbyes to his brother and my new friends. We promise to return soon for more laughter-filled nights and shared shenanigans.
The cool night air greets us as we step outside, the lively echoes of laughter and clinking glasses gradually fading into the background as we meander down the cobblestone street.
“Well, that was a hoot,” I comment, shooting Cal a playful grin. “Your brother could totally have his own talk show.”
Cal’s laugh is low and warm, causing his eyes to crinkle at the corners. “Aye, Cameron’s always beenour resident chatterbox. Me? I’m supposedly the strong, silent type.”
I can’t help but snort at this. “Silent? You? I beg to differ, mister. You were holding court in there with all those tales of warriors and legends.”
He shrugs casually. “What can I say? Ye bring out my inner bard, Mills.” His voice dips lower, sending a delicious shiver.
We walk in companionable silence, our footsteps echoing against the surrounding old buildings. As Rosewood Cottage comes into view, my stomach twists with anticipation.
Cal stops at the gate, his fingers lingering on the icy metal latch before he turns to face me under the soft glow of moonlight. We’re so close, I can practically hear his heart thrumming in his chest.
“Tonight was... perfectly right... with you...Teine’na broinn,” he murmurs.
His words form a lump in my throat—a personal endearment from him—fire inside her. Usually, I’d deflect such intimacy with humor or sarcasm, but tonight feels different.
