Mini Brain Dumps

Hello everyone! Thank you to everyone who has been reading along.

If you’re new and haven’t read the beginning yet, you can find it here: The Darkest Depths Beginning

Haven’t read the third chapter yet. No worries, you can find it here: The Darkest Depths Previous Chapter

I hope you enjoy!

Trigger Warning: This novel contains references to sexual assault and mental health disorders. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 4:

he first light of dawn crept through the thin curtains, casting a gentle glow over Quentin’s room. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, the familiar sounds of the farm greeting him as he rose from his bed. The soft clucking of chickens and the distant lowing of cattle could be heard as he dressed in his typical trousers and t-shirt.

“Quentin, time to get up.”

“I’m up,” he grumbled.

He combed his fingers through his tousled hair, pushing it out of his face, and then hurriedly crammed his feet into his worn boots. Ready for another day of chores, he grabbed his jacket and headed outside, greeted by the cool morning air that carried the scent of hay and dew.

His mom was already busy feeding the chickens near the coop. It had always been his least favorite task, ever since a rooster chased him out of the coop when he was younger. Quentin got the last laugh, though, when the rooster ended up on his dinner plate. As Quentin grabbed the feed bucket, he couldn’t help but smirk at the memory.

“Morning, Mom,” he greeted, trying to hide his amusement.

“Morning, Quentin,” she replied, glancing up with a smile.

They fell into a comfortable rhythm, the morning chores unfolding as they had countless times before. Quentin found solace in the familiar routine, the rhythm of farm life grounding him even as his thoughts drifted to the allure of the sea.

Chopping wood was his favourite chore. The burning of his muscles, the satisfying crack as the wood split in half. It was a great way to relieve the tension that seemed to permanently reside on his shoulders.

But today, chopping wood seemed to do little to calm his restless energy. As he raised the ax again, his mind wandered to the sea, to a different kind of labor he longed for. He brought the ax down, the wood splintering in front of him.

He paused for a moment, wiping sweat from his brow as he stared at the pile of freshly split logs. The routine had become second nature to him—wake up, feed the animals, chop wood, repeat. Lately, it had begun to feel like a chain. He wondered, not for the first time, how much longer he could keep pretending that this was enough.

“Quentin!”

His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He shook his head and raised the ax again, but the pull of the ocean lingered, just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

“Would you mind running into town for me?” his mom asked.

He brought the ax down again, leaving it buried into the wood. “Sure. Whatcha need?”

“We need some bread.”

Quentin wiped his hands on his trousers and nodded. “Sure thing, Mom. I can head into town now.”

“Thanks,” she handed him a small pouch of coins. “And while you’re there, see if you can find some milk thistle. I need it for my tea.”

“Got it,” Quentin replied, tucking the coins into his pocket. “I’ll be back soon.”

Birds chirped merrily in the trees, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and earth. He watched as the sun peeked through the trees, the warmth dancing across his skin, as he walked the well-trodden path toward town. He exchanged nods with neighbors tending to their fields, their faces weathered by the same routine he knew so well. They seemed content with their lot, satisfied with the rhythm of the seasons, the familiarity of life in Marielle.

Quentin wasn’t.

As he passed, he found himself wondering if this was all he was destined for—crops, livestock, and the occasional festival. The same fields, the same paths, the same sun rising and setting over the same hills. The sea whispered in his mind again, the promise of adventure just beyond the horizon. Could he really leave all of this behind? His mother, the farm, everything he knew? Or would staying here be the real risk, a life half-lived, full of “what ifs” and daydreams never chased?

The town greeted Quentin with its usual charm. Small cottages with thatched roofs lined the streets, adorned with colorful flower boxes and hanging lanterns. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from the bakery on the corner, mingling with the earthy scent of herbs and spices from the apothecary’s shop.

Quentin made his way through the square, the emptiness a stark contrast to the throngs of people who had been gathered the night before. Some townsfolk were helping to remove the banners from the windows of the surrounding homes. Quentin couldn’t help but feel a spark of sadness course through him, the remnants of the festival gone for another year.

He slipped inside the apothecary, the chime of a bell announcing his arrival.

“Ah, Quentin!” greeted Old Margery, the elderly herbalist who knew the secrets of every plant in the region. “What might you be looking for?”

“Milk thistle,” Quentin answered.

Her face softened, the wrinkles deepening around her kind eyes. “Ah, poor thing. I’ve heard of your mother’s troubles since your dad…” she sighed. “I knew your father. He was a great man. And your mother, she’s a strong woman,” she placed a bundle of dried purple flowers into a cloth and wrapped them tightly. “But even the strongest need some help sometimes.”

Quentin nodded. “She’s been through a lot, but this always helps her.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Here you go,” she placed the carefully wrapped bundle into his hands. “And take these too,” she added, handing Quentin another pouch filled with chamomile and lavender.

Quentin accepted the herbs with a smile, tucking them into his satchel, and placed a few coins into Old Margery’s hand. “Thank you, she’ll appreciate it.”

He slipped outside once again, the slight tinkling of the bell announcing his departure. The bakery was just a few steps away, its wooden sign creaking softly in the breeze.

“Ah, Quentin! Back again so soon?” called out Eloise, the stout baker with rosy cheeks and a warm smile. She carefully placed a golden loaf of bread into a wicker basket, the crust still steaming.

“Morning, Eloise,” Quentin greeted with a nod, “How’ve you been?”

“Same as always,” she said, brushing flour off her hands with a grin.

“The usual?” she inquired with a raised brow.

“Yes please.”

He watched as she reached for a freshly baked loaf and placed it in a cloth. “Here you go, Quentin. Fresh from the oven. Do you need anything else today?”

Quentin accepted the bread with a grateful smile, feeling the warmth of it seep through its wrapping. “Just the loaf today, thank you.”

Madame Eloise nodded and flashed him a smile. “Always a pleasure to see you, Quentin. How’s everything on the farm?”

Quentin shrugged slightly, leaning against the counter. “Same same, keeping busy.”

The baker chuckled softly. “I imagine so. You know, if you ever need a hand with anything, just let us know. We’re all here to help.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

As he tucked the warm loaf into his satchel, Madame Eloise glanced around the bakery, then leaned in slightly. “By the way, Quentin, I’ve just made a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. Why don’t you take a couple for the road? Consider it a little treat.”

Quentin’s eyes lit up. Cinnamon rolls were his favorite, and Eloise knew it. “Really? Thank you so much!”

With a chuckle, she wrapped two cinnamon rolls in a piece of parchment paper and handed them to Quentin. “Here you go. Say hi to your mom for me, okay?”

“I will. Thanks again,” Quentin smiled, feeling a warmth that went beyond the bread and cinnamon rolls he carried. He couldn’t wait to get home and eat them. He could almost taste the sweet butter treat on his tongue as he stepped out the door.

In his distraction, he felt his shoulder brushed against someone passing by, nearly sending his bag to the ground. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he stammered, steadying himself as he looked up.

His breath caught in his throat for a moment. Before him stood a woman with fiery red hair that cascaded over her shoulders in tight curls, catching the morning light like embers. Her eyes, a piercing shade of emerald green, met his with a curious glint, and for a second, Quentin forgot what he was about to say.

“No harm done,” she replied, her voice warm and unbothered as she stepped toward the counter.

Quentin blinked, realizing he was still staring. He quickly adjusted his satchel, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Who was she?

The thought lingered as he walked away, the sound of the bell tinkling faintly behind him.

When Quentin returned to the farm, his mother was bent over the vegetable patch, hands deep in the soil as she weeded between rows of tomatoes. “Got the bread,” Quentin called, holding up the loaf and the parcel of cinnamon rolls.

His mother looked up with a smile. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Eloise spoils you too much.”

Quentin chuckled, setting the bread down on the porch. But as his mother returned to the task at hand, Quentin’s smile faltered. The warmth of the cinnamon rolls should have made him feel at home, but it didn’t.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” his mother remarked without looking up. “Something on your mind?”

Quentin hesitated, his gaze drifting past the fields. Should he tell her about the pull he felt, the endless questions gnawing at him? He could almost feel the ocean’s breeze on his skin, even standing there on solid ground.

“No, not really,” he finally muttered.

His mother straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’re a terrible liar, Quentin. I know when something’s bothering you.”

Quentin swallowed hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. Just thinking. Nothing big.”

“Thinking about what, exactly?” Her eyes searching his. “The farm? Or… something else” she wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Quentin swallowed, forcing a smile that felt too tight. “A bit of both,” he replied, though in his mind, the sea loomed larger than any thought of the fields or chores. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not yet. He bit into the roll, letting the sugary warmth melt on his tongue. It should’ve been delicious. Instead, he only tasted bitterness.

Your Thoughts Matter!

I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Please leave your comments below. Your input will help shape the future of this project and ensure it’s the best it can be.

Thank you for taking the time to read and I can’t wait to hear from you!