Heather on the Wrong Century

Wind combs heather like dark water. MARA ELLERY and CALLUM SLOANE stumble over peat and stone—too clean, too modern, too lost. Behind them: the faint, dying GLINT of the thistle-etched keepsake in Mara’s palm.

This is… 1826.

You said that already. Say the part where we go back.

Mara turns the keepsake. The thistle engraving looks older now—etched deeper, like it’s been waiting.

It opened because we opened it. Like… a lock that needed—us.

Right. Romantic. Except we’re about to get arrested for existing.

A distant BARK—dogs. A SHOUT carried by wind.

We need people. Shelter. Clothes. And you—stop walking like you’re looking for Wi-Fi.

I’m walking like I’m looking for not dying.

They crest a rise. Below: a croft, smoke from a chimney, a small fold of sheep. A MAN works the fence line—broad-shouldered, controlled. A dirk at his belt.

Someone lives.

Someone will ask questions.

They start down.

ALASDAIR KERR turns as they approach. His gaze pins them—fast scan of boots, seams, skin, their empty hands.

You’re far from the road.

We— got turned around.

Mara steps in, eyes on his plaid, his stance, the mud caked up to his calves.

We’re… looking for Kinloch. We were meant to meet family.

Alasdair’s jaw tightens at the lie’s shape.

Kinloch’s a day’s walk, if your legs are made for it. Yours aren’t.

Callum gives a half-smile that tries and fails to charm.

We can work for a night. Anything. Just somewhere out of the wind.

Alasdair doesn’t move. The dogs circle, suspicious.

Names.

Mara’s mouth opens—then closes. One wrong surname could kill them.

Callum. And she’s Mara.

Alasdair watches Mara like he’s weighing the truth on her face.

Mara.

You’ve an English tongue.

I’ve… traveled.

Everyone says that when they’re running.

Callum steps closer, careful not to crowd.

We’re not trouble.

Trouble doesn’t announce itself.

A distant HOOFBEAT on the track. Alasdair’s head turns—listening. His hand finds the fence post like it’s an anchor.

ALASDAIR (CONT’D)

There’ll be riders come through here today. Men who like questions answered with blood.

Mara’s historian brain fires—too fast.

The excise patrol. After the whisky stills since the new levy—

Alasdair’s eyes snap back to her. Sharp. Dangerous.

How do you know that?

Mara freezes. Callum’s gaze flicks to her: What did you just do?

I— I heard it. In town.

There’s no town for ten miles.

Silence. Wind. The keepake in Mara’s hand gives a soft, imperceptible TICK—like a buried clock.

Callum sees Mara’s panic and covers.

We were robbed on the road. Hit our heads. She’s… not right.

Mara shoots him a look: Really? Alasdair’s face doesn’t soften, but it shifts—calculation to decision.

If you’re liars, you’ll bring the riders here.

We won’t.

You can’t promise what you don’t control.

He steps in close to Mara, low voice—honorable, but not kind.

ALASDAIR (CONT’D)

If you know things you shouldn’t, keep your mouth shut. Knowledge gets folk killed.

Mara swallows, guilt flickering—because she knows.

We’ll be quiet. We just need one night.

Alasdair looks past them to the open moor—like he can already see consequences moving.

One night.

You’ll sleep in the byre. Keep out of sight.

You’ll come inside. My sister’s gone. You’ll wear her dress.

Mara’s shoulders sag with relief—then the keepsake TICKS again, louder in her mind.

Thank you.

Alasdair turns, leading them toward the croft. As Mara follows, she glances down at the thistle engraving.

A faint smear of fresh DARKNESS pools in one groove—like ink.

No. No, no…

Callum catches it.

What?

Mara forces her hand closed around the keepsake, as if she can stop time by squeezing.

History.

It’s listening.

Alasdair holds the door, eyes on the horizon where the hoofbeats grow nearer.

Then pray it’s deaf.

He ushers them in as the wind lifts—and somewhere in the heather, the past shifts its weight toward them.