Sometimes the best writing progress comes from returning to the very beginning.
Today I revisited the prologue for Anna Untold and worked on strengthening the foundation of the story. A prologue carries a lot of responsibility because it sets the tone, introduces mystery, and gives readers their first emotional connection to the world. I wanted this new version to feel richer, more atmospheric, and more connected to the deeper lore I have been building recently.
As the world of Anna Untold continues to expand, I’ve realized how important it is for the opening pages to hint at the hidden layers beneath the surface without revealing too much too early. Mystery matters. Questions matter. Readers should feel like something is slightly wrong… or magical… before Anna fully understands it herself.
I’m excited about the direction the story is heading, and I think this new prologue better captures the tone and wonder I want the book to have moving forward.
Prologue – Anna Untold
Fog pressed low across the gravel road, thick enough to swallow the fence posts and the lower branches of the cedar trees lining the drive. Rain had passed through the valley not long before, leaving the world damp and shining beneath the cold autumn night. Water dripped steadily from the dark needles overhead. The smell of wet earth and moss hung heavy in the still air.
Far out in the fields beyond the road, tiny fireflies bobbed lazily above the tall grass like drifting embers.
A man stood at the bottom of the drive with his boots planted firmly in the wet gravel. He wore faded denim overalls stained with dirt and old grass marks, a thin flannel shirt beneath them, and a weathered red baseball cap pulled low over his brow. A small gardening trowel rested in the back pocket of his overalls.
He looked to be somewhere in his sixties, though there was something about him that made age difficult to place. His face was lined and weathered like the bark of an old oak tree that had endured many storms without ever falling. Dark green eyes watched the road quietly beneath the brim of his cap.
The cold did not seem to touch him.
A short distance behind him stood a couple near the edge of the trees. Their breath curled pale into the night air each time they exhaled.
Felix Carter kept one arm protectively around his wife while his other hand gripped the strap of the leather satchel hanging at his side. His tweed jacket had darkened slightly from the lingering dampness in the air, and his glasses fogged faintly whenever he breathed too heavily.
Beside him, Samantha rested both hands against her very pregnant belly beneath her wool coat. Even bundled against the cold, she still shivered now and then as she watched the old man standing in the road.
Headlights appeared at last through the fog.
Soft yellow beams pushed weakly through the mist as an old DeSoto climbed the gravel drive. The engine rattled and coughed against the hill before the car rolled to a stop.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then the driver’s door opened.
An old man stepped slowly from the car, tall and thin beneath a wrinkled pinstripe suit that looked like it belonged to another decade entirely. A lime green fedora rested atop long silver hair, and a neatly trimmed beard framed his lined face. His shoes were worn nearly gray with age and travel.
His eyes moved over the fog-shrouded darkness around them.
“So,” the old man in the fedora said quietly, “this is where you settled.”
The man in overalls adjusted the brim of his cap slightly.
“Better than the last place.”
A faint, tired smile touched the old man’s face.
“Anything would be.”
The man in overalls stood silently for a moment, as though listening to something beneath the soaked earth surrounding them.
“It is ancient,” he said softly. “And deep.”
The old man in the fedora looked around the darkness once more.
Then he nodded.
He opened the rear door of the DeSoto and carefully lifted out a small bundled infant wrapped tightly in cream-colored blankets.
The baby never stirred.
The old man in the fedora approached slowly.
The man in overalls stepped aside slightly and motioned toward the couple standing behind him.
“These are Felix and Samantha Carter,” he said. “They will serve as the guardians.”
The old man in the fedora studied them carefully.
“Will they do?”
The answer came without hesitation.
“They are the best.”
For a long moment, the old man simply watched them.
Then he stepped forward and carefully placed the child into Felix’s arms.
“She is special,” he said quietly. “Protect her.”
Felix adjusted the blankets gently around the baby’s tiny face and nodded once.
“We will.”
Samantha stepped closer immediately, brushing trembling fingers softly against the infant’s cheek. Her expression softened almost instantly.
The old man’s eyes drifted toward Samantha’s stomach.
“You will have one of your own soon enough.”
Samantha managed a faint smile. “Any day now.”
For the first time, warmth briefly touched the old man’s expression.
Then it faded.
He tipped the brim of his fedora politely, turned, and climbed back into the DeSoto.
The engine coughed back to life.
Within moments, the headlights had disappeared into the fog, swallowed completely by the damp darkness of the valley road.
Silence settled once more beneath the dripping trees.
Only then did the man in overalls speak again.
“You cannot keep her yourselves,” he said softly.
Felix looked down at the sleeping child in his arms. “Why?”
“You would be the first place anyone would look,” the man answered. “And they will be looking.”
He lifted one weathered hand and pointed up the gravel drive disappearing into the fog.
Farther up the hill, barely visible through the mist, a warm amber porch light glowed softly in the darkness.
“Take her there,” he said. “It is called Wren House.”
Felix squinted through the fog. The orphanage sat higher along the slope overlooking the hidden valley below. Even through the mist, its old brick walls and tall narrow windows stood dark and solid against the night. Water dripped steadily from the deep porch roof, and warm golden light glowed behind rain-speckled glass.
It looked old.
Not fragile old.
Enduring old.
“The woman there is strict,” the man in overalls continued. “Firm.”
His dark green eyes softened slightly.
“But she has a good heart.”
Samantha looked uncertain. “An orphanage?”
“It is safe,” the man answered simply.
Felix shifted the infant carefully in his arms while Samantha moved closer beside him, one hand resting protectively against the blankets covering the baby.
“She won’t be alone,” Samantha whispered quietly. “Our son will be here soon enough.”
Felix smiled faintly.
“He’ll look after her.”
When Felix looked back toward the road, the man in overalls was already gone.
Only drifting fog remained where he had stood.
The fireflies continued bobbing quietly out in the wet fields beyond the trees.
Together, Felix and Samantha started up the gravel drive.
The stones shifted softly beneath their shoes as they climbed toward the waiting light. The orphanage grew larger with every step, tall brick walls streaked dark from decades of rain, ivy creeping along one side, narrow windows glowing gold against the cold night.
Near the back of the property sat an old outbuilding with a sagging roof and a single dim lantern glowing faintly inside.
At the top of the porch steps, Felix hesitated only briefly before knocking on the heavy wooden door.
Several moments passed.
Then warm light spilled across the porch as the door opened.
A woman in her forties stood there wearing a dark cardigan over a pale nightgown. Silver-threaded hair had been pinned back in obvious haste, and though sleep still lingered in her eyes, concern immediately softened her expression when she saw the bundled infant in Felix’s arms.
“She needs a home,” Felix said softly.
The woman carefully took the child into practiced arms, adjusting the blankets gently around the sleeping baby.
“Does she have a name?” she asked.
Felix looked toward Samantha.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Samantha smiled softly at the child. “Anna,” she whispered.
Author Aaron Vaughn 
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