Elsie Rachet …
Sun eclipsed the ragged stone monolith above, and light hesitantly edged its way into the glen. The glimmer of morning dew upon heather rimmed the upper valley as light chased shadows along the creek cut floor. Thatched roofs, one by one were light engaged, distinct; while blue ethereal smoke like ribbons attached to sky, marked the first morning fires stoked.
Miss Elsie Ratchet stood atop the milliners stoop, her hob-nailed boot laden feet, apart, rocking on her heals, rotund form swaying, hands matron-like, clenched behind, happily watching day unfurl, as if she alone had orchestrated it. A bulbous woman, with one heavy dark brow lower than the other, and a one-eyed tick, like a constant winking, with a nervous cud chewing and ruddy, round face, framing an innate wrought iron will and resolve.
With sun securing the glen, Elsie relinquished and slipped inside the shop, bell reverberating. She flipped the open sign and peered out one last time, eye twitching, mouth busy, fully committed, then disappeared; the pane now just a deep shadow reflection. Day had begun in Hatters Glen.
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