#disley

[monkeyssalad-blog]

1954 portrait of Louis Armstrong by Disley by totallymystified Via Flickr: From Melody Maker.

[travelella]

The Dutch Garden (parterre) at Lyme Park, Disley, Stockport, UK

JR Harris

[artparks-sculpture]

A sculpture titled 'marble Autumn Tree (Relief Abstract Carved statue)' by sculptor Michael Disley. In a medium of Marble and in an edition of 1/1.

[slack-wise]

Portrait of me made using a hacked scanner, by Daz Disley

[insidecroydon]

Croydon loses out in the long run with just 21 marathon grants

This year’s London Marathon on Sunday will be celebrating the event having distributed more than £100million to good causes over the last 42 years. Yet Croydon has the worst record of all London boroughs in applying for grants, as STEVEN DOWNES reports Marathon fund-raiser: Croydon has been left trailing when it comes to accessing charity grants Just days before the staging of the 43rd London…

[beautiful-contrast]

Stags, Lyme Park, Disley, Cheshire - England

[luna-andra]

The Shadows Return | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OC Retired AU | Chapter 1: Smoke Signals

Summary:

Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley retired from the forces; Task Force 141 was decommissioned once they completed their last mission. Take down Shepherd. Everyone on the team stayed in touch, as well as the other comrades they met along the way. Los Vaqueros. KorTac. And many others. Shadow Company - what remained of it - slipped under the shadows and scattered themselves into the wind. Riley made the decision not to return back to Manchester. He was only less than 30 minutes away on the outskirts in Disley. Soap had put in a good word for Ghost with a local mechanic shop, and having nothing else but military experience and some basic mechanic skills he accepted it.

It was a quiet life, at least that’s what he thought. He started recognizing signs that he was being followed, watched. Maybe it was just the PTSD making him believe it. Until it got so much worse when he became acquainted with his neighbor miles down the old dirt path road, he realized that he would never be free from his past life.

CONTENT WARNING: Violence, eventual smut, MDNI (18+), slow burn, fluff, mentions of mental health

***Chapter 2 is already published on AO3, link in bio!***

He could see the smoke rising from down the street as he was piling into his work truck. “The hell..?” No one should be coming down this road, no one else but him and the farmer neighbor. The chance of some lone driver coming this way was slim to none; they were a mile down from the next main road, and this road ended in a dead end at that. Curiosity got the best of him. Ghost climbed into the cabin of the truck and turned the key into the ignition. His truck rolled down his driveway and he took a right in the direction of the smoke.

Immediately he spotted the farmer’s truck, stalled out in the direction of going down to their house. He reached for his skull balaclava and slipped it over his face, concealing himself naturally. He pulled up right behind the truck and cut the engine, leaving the cabin to approach the truck. Gravel crunched beneath his heavy feet as he took in a grounding inhale, his fist flexed beside him.

The hood was popped open. Ghost could hear the hissing of the engine, followed with aggravated curses coming from what sounded like a woman. He could see her little frame aggravated at her vehicle failing her. “Ma’am, do you need help?”

Her head peered over from the side of the hood. She squinted at first and her brows furrowed in confusion, followed by her honey brown eyes widening in caution.

Ghost put up his hands, realizing how menacing he must fucking look. She couldn’t have been taller than five foot three while he towered at six foot two. His stature could easily overpower hers. Can’t be more than 58 kilos. “I’m your neighbor, I saw your accidental smoke signal from up the road.” He pointed behind him in the direction of his house.

Her shoulders relaxed, but her eyes remained cold and hard as he neared closer to her. Or at least tried to look that way. “Yeah, my truck stalled out on me and started smoking up. Just my fucking luck,” she snarled as she kicked the passenger side tire with her small foot.

“Easy there, gonna fracture that foot.” Ghost immediately noticed that she had an American accent. What’s an American doing out in rural UK? “Let me take a look at it. I got my tools in my truck.”

She blew out a frustrated exhale as she ran a hand through her short brown hair. “Thank you, neighbor..”

“It’s Ghost-” he couldn’t stop himself from finishing his introduction. Still calling himself by his call sign after all of this time. “Simon, I mean.” His true name coming from his own mouth felt unfamiliar, like he hadn’t been Simon in a long time.

She raised an eyebrow at him, amusement kindling in her eyes. “Is Ghost a nickname you go by?”

“Something like that,” He muttered. “Be right back.” Ghost trudged back to his own truck to grab his gloves and tool bag. Fuckin’ hell… sound like a stupid sod. He slammed the door of his cabin and made his way back, watching her lean up against the truck as her chestnut hair blew in the gentle breeze. He took in every detail of her; from the way her red and black plaid shirt was coming untucked at her faded jeans, to how her fingers tapped against her thigh like she was suppressing her irritation at this inconvenience. There was a definition in her arms if you looked hard enough, you could catch her flex the muscle she had. Realizing it was probably creepy, he shook his head and returned his attention to her truck.

“I’m Andra, by the way,” she uttered insecurely.

Ghost peered up to her and nodded. “Pleasure to meet ya.” He got to work trying to diagnose what the issue at hand was, gloving up his calloused hands. She stepped around where she was propped up against the truck to watch Ghost work, eyes peeking up to his masked face every now and then. A silence loomed over them for a moment. He’s used to people talking his ear off, but she was as quiet as a mouse. She's likely still apprehensive with meeting Ghost this way, and he didn’t blame her. “What brought an American to the countryside of the UK, Andra?”

Andra crossed her arms over her chest as she shifted on the balls of her feet. “A couple of different things, honestly.” There was a miniscule southern drawl in the inflection of her voice. Ghost would have easily missed it if he wasn’t paying attention.

“Name one,” he asked gruffly, still concentrating on finding the problem.

Her hair wisped around as she looked away, down the dead end street. “I wanted a new start. Threw a dart at a map and this is where I landed.”

He chuckled to himself, not believing her for one second. No one wanted to come live in Disley, there was nothing out here. “Must have poor aim.” He paused before considering his next question, but he went for it anyway. “Just you?”

“Just me.”

The tone in her voice didn’t reflect any kind of sadness, or anger for that matter. She just stated it with conviction.

 After a thorough look, he stood up straight and rested a hand on the lid of the hood. “It’s a transmission issue.”

Andra groaned and threw her head back. “Just what I needed.”

Ghost pushed the hood shut and pulled his gloves off. “I can tow it to my shop and we can see what we can do about it. We can do some kind of payment plan-”

“No, it’s okay I can pay outright,” Andra protested. “I’m not worried about the cost, I just worry about how long it’s gonna be in the shop for.”

He tapped his fingers on the hood. “I can give you a more accurate time frame and quote when I take it there.”

Andra nodded, clapping her hands together. “Alright, let’s get her in the shop.” Ghost reached down to grab his tool bag and she smiled at him. “Thank you for coming to my aid. You didn’t have to stop to help me.”

Ghost didn’t say anything else, just gave her a terse nod and returned to his truck.

----

Andra felt confined in the large cabin of Ghost’s - Simon’s? -  truck. The drive there was filled with silence. He allowed her to ride with him on the way, and she couldn’t help but think that this is how her murder mystery, unsolved case would begin. A hunking, bulky masked man pretending to assist a tiny American woman, whilst towing her own vehicle. He could easily get rid of her truck, take it to a chop shop and make her disappear. No one would care about an immigrant being found.

Andra tried to shake those thoughts away. He truly appeared to be genuine about his intentions. It was probably good business for his mechanic shop, too. Ghost insisted on driving her back, or at least paying for the taxi or Uber for the way back, but she wouldn’t let him. He had helped plenty enough, moreso helped when they had only just met.

“Where in the states are you from?” Ghost’s brassy British voice broke the uncomfortable silence, keeping his eyes on the road with one hand on the wheel, the other arm resting on the windowsill of the door. His biceps bulged out from the short-sleeved black shirt he wore. The arm closest to her, gripping the wheel, was littered with tattoos. She was too nervous to take a closer look at what they were, to her it was monochrome art littering his tanned skin.

“South, from Texas,” Andra responded truthfully.

He took a quick glance at her inquisitively before returning his focus on the road and let out a heavy exhale. "Texas is nice..." he muttered a response.

Andra was surprised, turning to look at him. "You've been to the states?" Her eyes roamed to the tattoos on his arm once again, noticing what looked like could be military insignia patches. "Wait, you're prior military, aren't you?"

Ghost stiffened, realizing that he gave himself away. "I was in special forces, SAS. Crossed the border into Texas on a mission."

Andra had to keep her jaw from dropping in disbelief. It was making sense now, though, and she laughed softly before looking back to the road ahead of them, now seeing civilization greeting them. "So Ghost was your call sign?"

He side eyed her with furrowed brows. "Are you a veteran?"

She relaxed further into her seat, feeling comfortable enough to open up more to him. "Half of my family is prior military; father, granddad, several uncles, a brother. I'm a little more versed than the average civilian, involuntarily."

He hummed in acknowledgement. Silence fell over them once again. Andra was inclined to find out more about her mysterious neighbor. “Did you grow up here in Disley?”

He took a second to answer her back. “Manchester,” Ghost responded. “Couldn’t stand being in the city, I enjoy the quiet.”

Andra smiled, “I agree.” her hands flittered with the edge of her shirt. “Was there anything you enjoyed while you were in Texas?” She felt like an idiot trying to draw out the conversation from him.

“Not particularly. It’s hot as hell there.”

She cracked up at his response. “You’re not wrong. That’s the one thing I do not miss from there. So much cooler here in the Summer. I do miss having a/c, though.”

He laughed, the rich sound vibrated through her. “That is one thing you Americans do have that we don’t.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I bet you’ve been to so many places.”

An agreeing rumble came from his throat. “Lost count.”

Ghost was short when it came to small talk, but Andra didn’t mind. Her concern of going missing was put on the back burner in the recesses of her mind. It never ceased to amaze her that the saying “small world” rings true no matter how many times it has occurred in her life. She couldn’t refrain from her growing curiosity.

But her curiosity would have to lead her to revealing more than she may be comfortable with.

----

Andra sat in the waiting area while Ghost unloaded her truck and pulled it into the shop. He had to explain to everyone else what the hold-up was about, but they shrugged indifferently.

“That’s fine,” Rus said as he turned his head to peer at him. “Just don’t take anything other than financial compensation for her work, you hear?” 

Ghost glared at him with disgust when Rus chuckled. He was well aware of how vile some of the mechanics could be in his shop, but it never crossed his mind to entertain similar behavior.

Soap approached Ghost as he wiped his hands with an oily rag. “Who’s the pretty thing that came in with you?”

Ghost was growing irrationally irritated with everyone making comments about Andra, and Soap was no exception to his wrath. His eyes darkened as he silently assaulted him with a venomous glare. “No one.”

“C’mon, Ghost.” Soap followed him to the back of the shop, “You’re not the kind of guy to be picking up random lasses, and I can count on one hand how many have gone wit’ ye anywhere voluntarily. ‘Course they were sloshed at the tim-”

“Johnny.” He growled his last warning.

“Alright,” he dropped the subject and returned to work mode, assisting Ghost with the lift. “Is this her truck?”

“Yeah.”

Ghost kept a watchful eye on her, taking note on how she brushed the hem of her shirt with her small hands. Her eyes scanned inside the shop, examining everyone’s face. When she found him, he looked back down at the diagnostics terminal, and he avoided her gaze for the rest of the time until he absolutely had to approach her.

There was a persistent thought in the back of his mind he kept revolving back around to. Why is an American woman from Texas here? It had to be the wildest coincidence known to man, right? There were times where Ghost would get the sense that he was being followed. Watched. When he went out to the pub with Johnny, while he worked sometime. Even when the two of them would go on hunting trips, where no one else should know of their location. He couldn’t shake the notion that there were watchful eyes beyond the high ground.

It bothered her how easily she trusted him. Accepting help from a neighbor you know is one thing, but from a complete stranger? And why was said stranger so eager to help her in the first place? Ghost’s neck tensed up, he rolled his head as he could feel a headache blooming in his temples.

Soap always told him that he was being paranoid, and he was probably right. If there was something afoot, he could count on him to detect if something was off.

----

Andra had already hailed for a cab, it would be a little while before they could arrive to take her home. She didn’t mind the delay; she was still waiting for Ghost to give her the ETA and the quote on the repair. She sat in the lobby patiently, inspecting her nails as her leg bobbed, crossed over the other. I should’ve grabbed my book from the truck, she regretted. 

Andra had scrolled through her social media and grew bored of that easily. All she was seeing was updates from old friends back home. She didn’t want to be reminded how far away she was from old connections and family. It made her homesick, a notion she refused to acknowledge.

The door to the main workshop swung open, and Ghost walked through. She stood up from her chair as he walked up to her. “I’m sorry for making you wait, I am looking for a supplier to send us the parts sooner than what I have been getting.”

“How long are we talking?” Andra asked nervously.

“Two months.” He answered.

She exhaled in defeat, running a hand through her hair and it fell back in place. “That’s gonna put me in a super tight spot, I won’t be able to sell at the farmer’s market.”

Ghost shifted from one foot to another, looking down at her. “I’m not finished going through our list of suppliers, so I will let you know if anyone can send parts in sooner. In the meantime,” he handed out a plain business card to her. “I put my personal cell number on the back so you can call later or tomorrow for an update.”

Andra took the card and looked down at it before glancing back up to his implicit eyes. “Thanks, Ghost. You really saved me today.”

He nodded. “Do you have any belongings you need to get from your truck?”

“Oh yes,” she remembered. “I just wanted to get my book from inside. It’s sitting on the passenger seat up front.” 

Ghost insisted on retrieving it for her. He opened the passenger door and found the well loved book laying there, looking back up to him. He made note of the title and the author; it sounded like a mystery-horror type of read. Ghost wiped his hand off on his work pants to avoid staining the cover and pulled it out before closing the door. He went back to the lobby and handed the book to her. “Get home safe,” he cleared off as he turned away from her and returned to the shop.

Andra turned over the business card, studying his scratchy handwriting. It was legible enough for her to make out the numbers, and she smirked as he scribbled ‘Ghost’ below.

[delicatuscii-wasbella102]

By Oldt1mer - Keith "Looking through a doorway of the main Manor House at Lyme Park across the lawns and lake and along the tree lined avenue to where afternoon strollers in the distance were enjoying the warm but hazy autumn afternoon. (Lyme Park is a country estate now owned by The National Trust and is near Disley in Cheshire)."

[mzannthropy]

Rewatching The Irregulars made me wish, once again, that Sam Claflin was Mycroft in this, rather than in Enola. Not only does Mycroft have a better characterisation, the episode he appears in (ep 3) is my favourite--a locked room mystery reminiscent of Agatha Christie. And I recognise one of the locations! The folly you see on the grounds of Mycroft's estate is called The Cage and is situated in Lyme Park, Disley, near Stockport (not far from Manchester). (Fun fact, the 90s Pride and Prejudice mini series was filmed here!) I'm happy for Jonjo O'Neill, he did a fine job in this, I really should not take it from him. But, you know... :(

[orotrasparente]

praticamente netflix ormai ha perso i diritti di tutte le serie più belle che aveva e se le sta prendendo tutte disley plus, in sostanza rimarranno su netflix tutte le serie di loro produzione che 9 volte su 10, salvando la pace di qualcuna, fan cacare

[cynsualc829]

Happy Friday! Enjoy the rebroadcast of the Cool Jazz Café show with host Dave Oz. Quench your musical thirst for 2 hours of cool smooth jazz with a touch of classic R&B musical delights beginning at 3PM EST and 9PM UK time.

🇺🇸 🇬🇧 🇩🇪 🇮🇹 🇬🇷 🇸🇩 🇿🇦 🇨🇦 🇧🇶

𝐖𝐏𝐔𝐑-𝐃𝐁 𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓'𝐋 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐎

www.pulseintlradio.com

#DaveOz #cooljazz #cooljazzcafe #contemporaryjazz #rnbmusic #summervibes #smoothjazzmusic #newmusic #Arizona #radioshow

The Cool Playlist 😎

Hour I

In Your Arms (ft. B. Thompson) / Bryard Huggins, You Complete Me / MELVIN RILEY, The Way You Sway / Blake Aaron, Metamorphosis (ft. @Phil Davis) / James 'PJ' Spraggins, Flyin' High / Yulara, Since I Lost My Baby / The Temptations, Dance (ft. Justin T Young & Honoré) / Sy Baldwin, Brother To Brother / Greg Manning, Rather Be / Kat Hawley, Secrets / Nick Stefanacci Music, Coastal Waters / Michael St. Clair, The Big Parlay / Fahrenheit 702, Where Did My Heart Go? / James Ingram, Phantom Sense / Rei Narita

Hour II

City Night / Charles A. Kelly, Your Tender Kiss (ft Marquel Jordan) / Geneva Renee, Reflection / Lowell Hopper, Party Time (ft. Ragan Whiteside) / Mark Adams, Getaway / Spyro Gyra, Tasting Sunshine (ft. Gerald Albright & Mark Kibble), Kimberly Brewer/ Kimberlily, Runnin' Hot / Elan Trotman, People Gotta Move / Keith Eatmon, Urban Renaissance / Cord Martin, 7th & Main / Jason Tripp, UPGRADE / Jazmin Ghent, Hot Fun In The Summertime / Sly & The Family Stone, Ready To Move (ft. Arno Haas) / Michael Amandus Quast), Razzle Dazzle / Terry Disley

[frenchcurious]

J. A. Flanigham : Bill Disley joue et gagne Couverture illustrée par Nic Damian. Les éditions de Lutèce, Police-Roman 3ème Série, 1955.

[artparks-sculpture]

A sculpture titled 'Listening To The Sea (Girl and Shell Carved statue)' by sculptor Michael Disley. In a medium of Stone Granite and in an edition of /2.

[mutant-what-not]

JOSEPH "NIN-NIN" REINHARDT (1912 - 1982)

"If anyone was born in someone else's shadow it was Joseph Reinhardt. Brother to Django Reinhardt he selflessly played a rhythm guitarist's role for his more famous brother, even though he was a great guitarist and composer himself.

"Joseph could be found accompanying his brother in cafes and in the bal-musette halls on either guitar or banjo and soon progressed to play with Louis Volas's Palm beach Orchestra. By 1933 he was popular and was found playing in various groups playing hot jazz. He even filled in for his brother on several occasions when Django failed to show up. By 1934 he was a full time guitarist in Le Quintette du Hotclub de France alongside his brother. Other roles including being Django's guitar carrier and spare string keeper, this eventually got the better of him and he decided to quit in 1937.

"After his departure from the Quintette he worked with Aime Barelli's big band and Alex Combelle's Jazz de Paris and recorded his first solo recordings with various groups, Gus Viseur "Swing 42", Hubert Rostaing"L'oeil Noir", Alex Combelle "If I had You". In 1943 he formed his own group recording with violinist Claude Laurence (alias Andre Hodeir).

"In 1947 he was to be found playing electric guitar with Stephane Grappelli's Hot Four. Django followed his brother in the same year and started playing electric guitar with less positive results.

Joseph apparently still lived the nomadic existence of his forebears and enjoyed nature at first hand, he showed this love for nature in various paintings of caravan scenes, campfires, horses etc..

"After his brothers death in 1953 Joseph laid down the guitar and did not start playing again until 1957, at this point he attempted to finish Django's unfinished Messe Gitane. In 1958 he appeared in the documentary "Django Reinhardt" which led to his appearance in a short film Paris Blues (1961). At this time he formed his own quintette and recorded two LP's.

"The 60's was quite an active period for Joseph, recording with his own string quintet and at the "Blue Jazz Museum" with his regular accompanists of the period, Dingo Adel and Jacques Montagene (Hot Club Records - "Live in Paris 1966"). He appeared at several concerts, performed in various Paris nightclubs occasionally with Babik Reinhardt and even visited the UK, playing and recording with Diz Disley. By the 1970's, however, his public performances had reduced although he did appear at the Samois Festival. For almost all his post-Hot Club Quintet work, Joseph Reinhardt used a very odd looking guitar that he made himself which, surprisingly, had a nice acoustic tone although it was frequently amplified.

"His early solo playing was considerably less flamboyant than Django and he subsequently developed a modern jazz style reminiscent of his brother's '47/48 electric work. He was above all else, a lyrical performer capable of producing some quite haunting compositions.

"Nin-Nin died on 24th February, 1982 and was buried beside Django at Samois perhaps, thereby, publicly condemned to remain in the shadow of his illustrious brother for eternity or, perhaps, ensured a posthumous recognition that he otherwise could not have expect."

Article and photo with great thanks to Mark Heller!

[mybeingthere]

Michael Disley Apple Tree Indian marble with oak plinth 60 x 30 x 2cm.

[paozuni]

I'm Paola, and I'm currently writing a slow-burn romance called High Hopes. This story follows Nat, a woman in her late 20s figuring out her life after finishing her master’s degree in the UK.

What was supposed to be her last summer in Manchester turns into an unexpected stay at her friend Emma’s family home—where she meets Emma’s brother, Harry. Nat wasn’t expecting much from this summer—just one last stretch of calm before everything changes. But between firelit conversations, unexpected friendships, and him—with his quiet smirks and maddeningly effortless charm—maybe this summer is about more than she thought.

This story isn’t fanfiction, but let’s just say… if I had to cast my main lead, well—Harry Styles, call me 👀

If you love slow-burn tension, found family vibes, and that feeling of a story unfolding in the golden glow of a late summer night, this one’s for you. 🌙✨

📖 High Hopes

#writing #originalfiction #slowburn #romance #newstory

Chapter 1 - Late June:  Arrival in Disley

How many times have you heard people say that time flies? I remember my mom saying it often as I was growing up. At the time, I thought she was being dramatic; as a kid, life felt slow, like I was stuck waiting for the exciting parts to begin. But now, at 27, I get it. Time really does fly—especially the past year.

When I moved from Miami to Manchester to pursue my master's degree and the desire to start a new life in London, I knew it would be intense. But as much as a year of classes, tutoring sessions, seminars, and endless writing sounded long, it had vanished in a blur. Yet again, if I'm honest, I didn't know what to expect when I left home. For the first time in a long while, I was doing something that challenged me and gave me purpose. It drove me forward, but it also filled me with self-doubt.

Between tight deadlines and an intense schedule, though, I found one bright constant—Emma Harwood. Somehow, in all the madness of the year, she became my friend. And when she invited me to spend the summer at her family's house in Disley to finish our dissertations, I couldn't say no. Emma is the kind of person you don't forget. She's extroverted in the best way, with a self-confidence that's both enviable and disarming. Her carefree energy hides a grounded determination, with the kind of carefree charisma that draws people in effortlessly. She can hold a room with just a laugh, but she's also deeply grounded, always knowing exactly who she is and where she belongs.

At first, when she first offered her invitation to her family's house, I hesitated. Would I be comfortable living with strangers? What if her whole family shared her relentless energy, and I couldn't keep up? I'd spent the past year renting a tiny room where I could hide from the world, so the idea of suddenly sharing space felt daunting. But Emma's persistence won me over.

So, I packed my life into suitcases once more, boarded a train at Manchester Piccadilly Station, and set off for Disley, not knowing what lay ahead. After all, she was a better friend to me in a year than some people had been in my entire life back home so a part of me was reassured her intentions were honest and good.

Lost in my thoughts, the train ride went by faster than I expected. The screech of the brakes broke the quiet as we arrived at the small platform. At first sight, Disley wasn't exactly what I had imagined—though, to be honest, I wasn't sure what I had imagined. The air was cooler, with a fresh smell of rain and something faintly sweet I couldn't name. It felt like the kind of place where even your footsteps would echo in the quiet. I stepped off the train, with my bags in hand as I scanned the nearly empty platform. For a moment, I wondered if Emma had forgotten. And then I saw her — waving enthusiastically from a bench.

"There you are!" Emma called, bounding over with her usual energy. "Welcome to the middle of nowhere!" I laughed despite myself, some of my tension easing.

"It's...charming."

She pulled me into a hug before grabbing one of my bags.

"Come on, let's get you settled. Mum's been cooking all day." She drove us through the winding streets of Disley, the village unfolding like a postcard outside the window. From the passenger seat, I watched its quiet rhythm—the way people greeted each other with easy familiarity, the kind of place where everyone seemed to know everyone. I couldn't help but wonder what I'd gotten myself into. A place like this didn't let you disappear into the background, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be noticed. But it was too late to turn back now. Before I knew it, we were pulling up to the Harwoods' house.

Emma hadn't exaggerated when she described her family home. The brick-fronted house looked plucked from a storybook, with flower boxes overflowing with bright blooms and a door that practically invited you in. The scent of something baking greeted us the moment we stepped through the threshold, warm and inviting.

"Mum! Nat's here!" Emma called as she kicked off her boots.

From the kitchen emerged Mrs. Harwood, an apron dusted with flour tied around her waist. She was exactly as Emma had described — warm eyes, a quick smile, and the kind of presence that instantly put you at ease.

"You must be Nat," she said, enveloping me in a hug before I could even say hello. It's lovely to finally meet you. Emma's told us all about you. Come in, dear, you must be starving."

I stepped further into the house, feeling both comforted and completely out of place. The wooden floors creaked softly underfoot, and the faint hum of a kettle in the kitchen added to the homely atmosphere. It reminded me of a childhood memory I couldn't quite put my finger on.

By the time Emma ushered me into the dining room, the table was already set with steaming bowls and plates of what could only be described as comfort food. It felt indulgent compared to the quick, thrown-together meals I'd been surviving on in Manchester.

"Dad! Harry! Dinner!" Emma called as she carried a plate of roast potatoes to the table.

Mrs. Harwood leaned in with a knowing smile. "They'll come when they're hungry enough. Sit, dear."

I slid into a seat next to Emma, the hum of quiet family conversation filling the room. Moments later, Mr. Harwood arrived, his booming laugh and warm handshake making me feel, at least temporarily, like I wasn't an intruder in their world.

And then came Harry.

He entered the room without much fanfare, his presence understated but noticeable. He was taller than I expected, with sharp features and an air of quiet confidence that seemed at odds with Emma's sunny energy.

"And this is my brother, Harry," Emma said, her tone light. "Don't mind him; he's grumpy by nature."

Harry shot her a look, but his lips quirked into a small smile. "Charming introduction, as always." He turned his gaze to me and nodded. "Nat, right? Nice to meet you." His voice was low, and I wasn't sure if his quietness was shyness or disinterest. I managed a polite smile and nodded back.

The dinner table felt like a scene out of a storybook — platters of steaming food, clinking silverware, and warm conversation filling the air. It was the kind of scene that made you feel both comforted and slightly out of place like you were watching a family memory unfold but weren't quite a part of it. Emma, of course, was in her element, bouncing from topic to topic, her energy filling the room.

"You know, Mum," she began, her eyes sparkling, "At first, Nat and I didn't talk too much. We were in the same classes, but it wasn't until the second half of the year that we really clicked."

Mrs. Harwood tilted her head, her curiosity evident. "Oh? What changed?"

Emma laughed, glancing at me. "I think I was just too much at first. Wasn't I Nat?" I felt caught off guard, suddenly all the attention was focused on me. "Not really, I just hadn't figure out how to keep up," I replied a bit nervous.

"Yet, while everyone else was always bouncing between projects, barely keeping track of deadlines Nat was the one who helped me keep my feet on the ground." I felt the attention shift to me again and shrugged modestly. "I just reminded you to submit your essays on time."

Emma placed her hand over her chest in mock dramatics. "Nat. Don't undersell it. You saved me from academic doom!"

"Sounds more like she had to learn how to put up with you," Harry said dryly, his tone carrying just enough humor to draw a round of chuckles. Emma threw him a playful glare but continued, undeterred.

"Anyway, I told Mum all about how you were this amazing writer who managed to keep me sane while also excelling at your own work. And I thought... why not invite you here for the summer? I mean, I had to convince you a bit, didn't I?"

I smirked, taking a sip of my water. "You mean relentlessly badger me until I caved?"

Emma grinned triumphantly. "Exactly! I couldn't let you spend the summer locked away in your flat, stressed about your dissertation. And look, here you are."

"Good to know Emma's tactics are as pushy as ever," Harry quipped, a smirk tugging at his lips. Emma shushed him with a laugh.

"Oh, be quiet, you. I'm sure she'll love it here." Then, Mrs. Harwood spoke, her voice soft but certain.

"We're happy to have you, Nat. For as long as you need. You've clearly been a wonderful friend to Emma."

Mr. Harwood, ever the jester, grinned broadly. "Anyone who can keep up with Emma's lively energy deserves a spot in our house."

Laughter bubbled around the table, and I found myself joining in, my heart lighter than it had been in weeks. "Thank you, I appreciate it."

Then, Harry whispered was sitting next to Mrs. Harwood leaned back in his chair and glanced at his mother. "Should I bring out the dessert from the café?" Mrs. Harwood nodded. "Good idea. It'll go perfectly with tea."

"Oh, is this the famous Harwood café that Emma always mentions?" I asked, curiosity sparking. Emma leaned closer, her voice brimming with pride. "The one and only. Mum and Dad started it years ago, and Harry manages a lot of it now that he's back in Disley. Wait until you see it — it's practically a village landmark."

Harry returned with a tray of pastries, their golden edges glistening under the soft light. The smell of chocolate and fruit filled the air, and as he set it down, I caught a fleeting look of quiet satisfaction on his face. It wasn't the smugness of someone showing off, but something gentler — pride, maybe, or the comfort of familiarity. Emma wasn't done.

"I'll give you the full tour of Disley tomorrow. The café's the first stop, of course." "Sounds perfect." I nodded, already feeling the weight of her enthusiasm.

As everyone began serving themselves dessert, I let myself relax into the moment, surrounded by the warm hum of family conversation. For the first time in a long time, the ache of displacement softened, replaced by something gentler. The Hardwood's seemed like a warm family, definitely less energetic than Emma but still, with her lively and chattery presence. Harry especially seemed to be the most quiet one among them, yet his playful demeanor with Emma showed a side of him that only comes from being comfortable with the people around him.

After dinner, Emma led me up the creaky staircase, her energy dimmed but still present in her warm smile. Harry followed behind us, carrying my bag effortlessly. I glanced back at him as he climbed the stairs, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

"Second door on the left," Emma said, pushing open the door to a cozy, sunlit room. The wooden floors were polished to a warm sheen, and a small desk sat by the window overlooking the garden. It was simple, but it felt... safe.

Harry set my bag down by the bed, straightened, and gave a brief nod. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you," I said softly. With that, he turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. Emma lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. Her usual playful energy seemed muted, replaced by something softer.

"You know," she began, her voice quieter than usual, "when I first thought of inviting you here, I wasn't sure if you'd say yes." I smiled faintly, running my hand over the quilt on the bed.

"I wasn't sure either." Emma chuckled, stepping further into the room.

"But I'm glad you did. It means a lot to me, having you here." I looked up, surprised by the earnestness in her tone. Emma, for all her chatter and charm, rarely paused long enough to let her emotions show so openly.

"You've been such a good friend this past year," she continued, sitting on the edge of the desk. "I know I can be... a bit much sometimes. Okay, a lot much. But you've always been there, keeping me grounded. I just... I wanted to give something back, you know?" Her words settled over me like a warm blanket. I felt a lump rise in my throat, but I swallowed it down, managing a small smile.

"Emma, you don't have to ... "

"Stop," she said, holding up a hand. "This summer, this house — it's not just for you to finish your dissertation. It's for you to breathe, okay? To just... be. No pressure, no deadlines, just you."

I nodded, unable to find the right words to respond. She smiled and stood, brushing her hands against her jeans.

"Okay, I'll leave you to unpack. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?" As she reached the door, she paused and turned back, her expression a mix of fondness and mischief.

"Oh, and Nat? Welcome home." Before I could respond, she was gone, her footsteps light as she made her way back downstairs.

I sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. The faint hum of the house enveloped me — the distant murmur of voices downstairs, the occasional creak of the floorboards, the gentle rustling of leaves outside the window. Emma's words echoed in my mind, and I wondered if maybe — just maybe — this could feel like one.