Nioka Curtis

The road curved gently through rolling hills, lined with stretches of green that seemed to go on forever. The sun hung high, casting a warm glow over the small Tennessee town of Waverly. I had heard about Waverly before — quiet, tucked away, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone — but seeing it for the first time was something else entirely.

As I crossed into town, the sign welcomed me with its simple charm: Waverly — Est. 1838. It felt like stepping into a postcard. The downtown strip stood still, dotted with brick buildings and storefronts that whispered stories from another time. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee wafted out from a little café on the square, mixing with the faint hint of flowers in the breeze.

I parked by the courthouse square, with the sounds of history floating through the air as children play checkers. The beautiful church bell ringing, signaling another hour passed as the whole town moved at its own slow, steady pace. People passed by with friendly nods — a small-town courtesy I had forgotten existed after moving to the city.

I wandered down Main Street, taking everything in. The antique shops, the family-owned restaurants, the faded murals painted on the side of buildings. It felt familiar somehow, like a place I’d always known without ever having been there.

I spent a day on the river before I left, soaking in the sun’s warmth as nature surrounded and comforted me. Watching the kids being thrown from tubes, talented water-skiers showing off, and the glimmer of sun as the rays sprinkle across the rippling waves. There was something peaceful about Waverly — something that made me want to linger just a little longer.

That first visit was short, but it left something behind. A quiet promise that I’d be back — not just to pass through, but to really know the heart of the town. I didn’t break that promise to myself.