On the tenth day, I woke to silence.

For a moment, I lay perfectly still, trying to identify what had changed. Then it hit me—the absence of sound. The rain had stopped. I pushed aside the heavy quilt and padded to the window, drawing back the curtains to reveal a world transformed by water.

My small garden was submerged, the herbs and late vegetables I’d planted barely visible beneath the murky brown flood. The great oak that dominated the yard stood like a sentinel in a newly formed lake, its massive trunk disappearing into water that reached nearly three feet high. Beyond my property, the fields stretched toward the river—except now there was no clear boundary where field ended and river began. It was all water, glittering dully under a sky that remained heavy with clouds.

The phone lines had gone down on the seventh day of rain. The electricity had followed on the eighth. I’d been living by candlelight and the warmth of my wood stove, rationing the food I’d stored and waiting for rescue, or at least information. But with the road now completely impassable, I knew help wouldn’t come soon.

I was alone with the flood.

My name is Eleanor Winters. I’m not the type of person who typically finds herself in dangerous situations. At forty-two, I’ve built a careful, predictable life as a botanical illustrator—documenting plants with watercolor and ink, working from my cottage on the outskirts of Millfield, a small village nestled in the valley beside the Blackwater River. For fifteen years, I’d lived there in peaceful solitude, my only regular companions the plants I painted and the changing seasons outside my windows.

The locals called me “the plant lady” when I first arrived, a designation that eventually softened to “Ms. Winters” at the general store, and finally just “Eleanor” at the post office where I shipped my completed illustrations to publishers around the country. I was known, but not truly known—a situation that suited me perfectly.

I’d chosen this isolated cottage specifically because it offered distance from my former life, from memories I preferred to keep submerged. But now, ironically, it was the rising water that threatened to bring everything to the surface.

Standing at the window that morning, watching the flood waters creep ever closer to my doorstep, I knew I needed to make decisions quickly. Should I stay and wait for help that might not come for days? Or should I attempt to reach higher ground on my own, risking the journey through unknown waters?

The sound of wood splintering interrupted my thoughts. I ran to the front door and threw it open, only to witness my garden shed breaking apart, its contents—tools, pots, bags of soil—floating away like bizarre offerings to some water deity. The flood was rising more rapidly than I’d realized, feeding on the swollen Blackwater River that had clearly burst its banks.

My cottage sat on a slight rise, which had protected it so far, but I understood with sudden clarity that this advantage wouldn’t last. The rainfall might have stopped, but the river was still gathering water from the hills. The worst was likely yet to come.

I needed to leave.

Moving with the focused efficiency that had characterized my life since the accident fifteen years ago, I gathered essentials—clothes, medication, my identification papers, a flashlight, and what remained of my non-perishable food. I stuffed it all into my largest backpack, then paused, looking around my small living room with its shelves of botanical reference books, the drawing table positioned perfectly to catch the northern light, the walls covered with my own illustrations of the local flora.

My gaze fell on my current work-in-progress—a detailed study of autumn mushrooms I’d collected from the woods behind my cottage. The half-finished painting showed the delicate gills of a honey fungus, rendered in precise, loving detail. Beside it lay my tools—sable brushes, technical pens, and the handmade watercolors I mixed myself using pigments gathered from minerals and plants.

I couldn’t take it all. But I couldn’t bear to leave it, either.

With a sigh, I rolled the mushroom painting and slid it into a waterproof tube. I selected a few of my most precious brushes and my favorite set of pigments, wrapping them carefully in a soft cloth before adding them to my pack. These were not practical survival tools, but they were essential to who I was.

As I moved through the cottage gathering my things, I deliberately avoided looking at the small wooden box on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. It had remained unopened for fifteen years, and now was not the time to change that. Some memories were better left submerged.

With my pack secured, I put on my tall rubber boots, my warmest coat, and a wide-brimmed hat to keep the rain off my face should it return. Then, taking a deep breath, I opened my front door to face the flood.

The cold water seeped into my boots almost immediately, despite their height. I gasped at the shock of it, the numbing chill that quickly turned to a bone-deep ache. The current was stronger than it appeared, tugging at my legs as I carefully made my way down what had once been my garden path but was now just a slightly less deep section of water.

My destination was Millfield, specifically the old church that sat on the highest point in the village. It was only two miles away, but under these conditions, it might as well have been twenty. The familiar landmarks I relied on to navigate were either submerged or altered beyond recognition by the flood. The road itself was invisible beneath the murky water.

I moved slowly, testing each step before committing my weight. The water depth varied unpredictably—knee-high one moment, then suddenly dropping to mid-thigh when I unwittingly stepped into a ditch or depression. Each time, I struggled to maintain my balance against the insistent pull of the current.

After what felt like hours but was likely only thirty minutes, I reached the old stone bridge that marked the halfway point to Millfield. Under normal circumstances, it arched gracefully over a narrow section of the Blackwater River. Now, the bridge itself was barely visible, with only the top of its stone arch rising above the water like the humped back of some ancient beast.

I paused, uncertain. To continue toward Millfield, I needed to cross this bridge. But the rushing water over its submerged surface made it treacherous. I searched for an alternative route, but the flooded fields on either side offered no safer passage.

The sound of an engine cut through the eerie silence, and I turned to see a small motorboat approaching from the direction of the village. Relief washed over me. Help had come.

The boat slowed as it neared, and I recognized the figure at the helm—Daniel Caldwell, the village’s librarian and local historian. We’d had occasional conversations over the years when I visited the library for research, but I wouldn’t have called us friends. Still, his familiar face was more welcome than he could possibly know.