In Hallow Acre, an orchard remembers what you say—and the town keeps that promise with a Charter written in full sentences. Clara Wren tends the trees, stamps consent marks on willing wrists, and guards a simple rule: no recording of a recording, no devices above the canopy, one-time right to listen. When drought, wildfire warnings, and a data lab arrive with "anonymous" sensors, Clara's careful world collides with Jonah Lark, a repairman whose old code now powers the lab's demodulator. What begins as a standoff over privacy becomes a slow-blooming small-town romance built on work, boundaries, and trust.

Part romantasy and part civic fable, this is cozy fantasy with a backbone: bells tuned to the creek's vowel, bees guided home through a corridor of humble chimes, a librarian who files minutes that bite, and a council that learns to deserve its authority. The town answers extraction with process—public listening days, visible consent, an Oral History Crew—and answers peril with craft: "repair first, then petition." As the community pursues an emergency cultural easement and a Listening Permit, Clara and Jonah shoulder the gate together, becoming co-keepers in deed before name.

For readers who love magical realism rooted in objects you can hold—a clay horn, a sky-blue bowl, a coil of line—and who crave hopepunk stories where ordinary people organize rather than prophesy, this novel asks: What does consent look like when a community listens? How do love and law share a kitchen wall? And where does technology belong when AI ethics meets ritual?

There are no chosen ones here, only neighbors: a hard-of-hearing mother who models deliberate listening; a father whose stern affection distills to "choose or go"; a land-trust rep drawing a line where wind and bells can legally belong; and a town that turns obligation into celebration. The romance is a found family of two (and then many): tea before verdicts, full sentences during disagreements, a shared two-to-four a.m. fence watch, and a vow to retie the ribbon even when it hasn't slipped.

By the final page, Hallow Acre isn't famous—it's practiced. The orchard cools, the permit passes, the easement is posted above the sink, and bees toss coins of sunlight for anyone who remembers to look up. If you're searching for a gentle, grounded cozy fantasy with the heartbeat of small-town romance and the moral clarity of AI ethics done right, welcome. Pull up a chair. Bring your best sentence.