Chapter Four – The Map of Thread
Amanda didn’t tell Chris right away.
It wasn’t that she wanted to keep secrets; it was just… how do you explain to your husband that the things you make are stepping out of the Wildebeest and into the real world? That stitches could bloom into sunflowers, or that vinyl mugs could echo back as invitations from strangers?
So instead, she tested it again. Quietly.
That afternoon, while Chris filmed a walking tour of the little town square, Amanda stayed behind at the RV with her sketchbook. She doodled a winding road that led to a cottage under twinkling stars, then cut a vinyl sticker of the design. She smoothed it onto the cover of her notebook, pressing her palm against it as though sealing in the thought.
The next morning, when they drove out, Amanda spotted it: a narrow road curling off the main highway, one they hadn’t seen on the map. And just at the bend stood a small cottage, whitewashed with ivy climbing its walls, smoke curling lazily from the chimney.
“Should we check it out?” Chris asked, slowing the RV.
Amanda’s heart raced, but she only said, “Yes.”
The cottage turned out to be a roadside café, run by an older couple who served blueberry scones and poured tea into mismatched floral mugs. The walls were covered in hand-painted constellations. Amanda stared at the painted stars, her notebook heavy in her lap. I made this, she thought. Or maybe… it was already here, waiting for me.
The couple welcomed them like old friends, slipping extra scones into a paper bag for the road. As they left, the woman pressed something into Amanda’s hand: a spool of thread the color of twilight.
“For your next project,” she said with a wink.
Amanda sat back in the passenger seat, cradling the spool. She hadn’t told anyone about her crafts coming to life. And yet here was a stranger, offering her thread, as if she already knew.
The Wildebeest hummed back onto the road. Chris tapped the steering wheel, lost in thought. Amanda stared at the twilight-colored thread, the feeling blossoming in her chest like the sunflower she had stitched.
Maybe her journey wasn’t just about the places they chose to stop.
Maybe the road was beginning to choose her.