Desene Sandy Bell -

The next morning, the village was quiet as Sandybell boarded the train. She pressed her face against the glass, watching the highlands fade into the distance. She touched the glass, whispering a goodbye to the heather and the hills.

Sandybell was the heart of the village. She played with the paper planes she folded from old newspapers, dreaming of flying far away. But lately, the wind felt different. It felt heavier. desene sandy bell

"The matter is settled," the lawyer insisted. "Her mother’s dying wish was for her to be raised with dignity once the family feud was settled. She leaves for London on the morning train." The next morning, the village was quiet as

The Highlands of Scotland were painted in shades of bruised purple and heather grey. The wind didn’t just blow here; it sang, carrying the scent of peat and distant rain. Sandybell was the heart of the village

"Sandybell! You’ll catch your death!" called a voice from the garden.

Sandybell ran. She didn't grab a coat; she just ran out into the rain, clutching her locket. She fled to her favorite spot—a cliff overlooking the sea where the white lilies grew wild.

Ten-year-old Sandybell laughed as she chased a stray sheepdog across the rolling hills, her auburn pigtails streaming behind her. She was a wild thing, raised by the kind-hearted gamekeeper, Mr. Conway, in a small stone cottage. She had no memory of her mother, and her father was a mystery—a silhouette in a photograph she kept pressed inside a locket.