Welcome to “the Stories from the Hollow”
Tucked between the trees, just past the mossy stone path, there’s a quiet place where stories gather like dewdrops at dawn.
Here in The Hollow, time slows. Letters are delivered by rabbits, teacups are warmed beside forest stoves, and the turning of the seasons carries tales worth telling.
This space is where I share glimpses into the world of Studio S.A.M. — cozy character scenes, bits of lore, and the quiet heartbeat of the forestfolk who call this place home. Whether it’s a story told in illustrations, a whispered journal entry, or a memory passed down like a well-worn recipe, you’ll find it here.
Settle in. There’s a kettle on and a patch of sun just waiting for you.
The Postmaster’s Visit
Mist still clung to the garden gate when Quillby arrived with a letter and a packet of seeds. Among lavender spills and the scent of tea, he finds more than just a delivery — he finds a moment of stillness, and something quietly shared.
The morning mist hadn’t yet left the path when Quillby Hop arrived at the wooden gate of Willow Fernly’s garden. The latch squeaked gently as he pushed it open, careful not to disturb the lavender spilling over the edges like a waterfall of scent.
He paused to take in the rows of herbs and wildflowers, planted with such quiet intention that it felt almost like walking into someone’s dream. Bees bobbed between rosemary stalks, and somewhere near the greenhouse, a kettle whistled low like a sleepy bird.
“Willow?” he called, though not very loudly.
There was a rustle behind a wall of sunflowers. Out stepped Willow Fernly, wiping her paws on an apron smudged with soil and calendula petals. Her ears perked at the sight of him.
“Morning delivery?” she asked, already smiling with her eyes.
“Letter and a favor,” Quillby said, holding up an envelope and a small packet of seeds. “Thought these might suit your spring rows.”
Willow took them with quiet grace, nodding toward the porch. “Tea’s just ready, if you’ve got time.”
“I always make time for thyme,” Quillby quipped, earning a rare chuckle as they disappeared into the fragrant calm of the cottage.
Rosemary at the Oven Door
On a sun-dappled morning in the Hollow, Willow Fernly sets out with a bundle of rosemary and a quiet hope. At the Thistle Oven, warm bread and friendship rise with the heat. A small act of kindness—wrapped in linen and twine—makes its way to Ollie Crumb’s flour-dusted doorstep.
The morning was warm and drowsy, the kind of day where sunlight draped itself like a blanket over the Hollow. Willow Fernly stepped carefully along the winding path, a bundle of fresh rosemary wrapped in linen and tied with twine nestled in her arms.
The scent trailed behind her like a whisper as she approached The Thistle Oven, Ollie Crumb’s bakery, where the windows were already fogged with morning warmth and the comforting scent of bread. She knocked gently, though the bell above the door jingled before her paw even touched the handle.
Ollie poked his head out from behind the counter, flour dusting his nose. “Is that you, Willow?”
“I brought you something,” she said softly, holding out the rosemary. “Thought it might suit your focaccia today.”
Ollie’s face lit up like the oven hearth. “It’ll make it taste like summer. Thank you.”
He set the bundle gently on the worktable and motioned toward a nearby stool. “Stay a while? I’ve just pulled the first loaf.”
Willow nodded and sat, tucking her apron neatly in her lap. There was no rush here, only rosemary and rising dough, and the quiet joy of sharing something warm.
“Rosemary at the Oven Door” - Illustration by Art Studio S.A.M.