Chapter 3 The Lavender Fields.

Ethan woke to the kind of silence that was possible only where the din of the world didn't intrude. The breath of morning blew through the open window, and on it was a fragrance that was recognizable-one that clung to his skin, threaded its way through his mind, and hummed just beneath his heartbeat.

Lavender.

He rose slowly to his feet, muscles still tense from the drive and the resettling into place of so many memories. The floor groaned beneath his feet, and when he opened the door to the porch, sunlight washed over the fields of lavender in rolling waves of violet and gold.

He stood on the porch for a time, coffee cup in hand, the cup itself older than most of his city friendships. The view before him was a living painting. Rows of lavender plants danced in the breeze, their fragrance rising on the air like an old melody.

His grandmother used to say, "The lavender doesn't just grow here. It remembers."

The thought brought a smile to his face-and pain, a little.

He needed to walk amongst them. Not just gaze. The fields were a part of him, a part of this place, and he had not realized how much he had missed it until now.

Pulling on his worn boots and flannel, Ethan strode down into the field. The crops brushed against his jeans, soft and insistent, like hands reaching out to snag him. The bees hummed their slow, workaday tune, and somewhere in the distance, a bird sang in a voice that echoed through the hollows of his chest.

The ground beneath his feet was familiar, dry, and rich. With every step deeper into the field, the world he'd known-schedules, skyscrapers, neon lights-grew quiet. Time went slower here. Or maybe it curved back on itself. He was no longer a man who had left, but a boy who had never left.

Near the middle of the field, he saw the old bench. Weathered and cracked from sun and rain over the years, it was still standing. His grandmother used to sit there every evening, a diary in her lap, speaking to the wind as though it carried her thoughts somewhere important.

Ethan sat and let the silence come to him. But it was not empty.

It pulsed.

In the stillness of the lavender field, he felt something more than silence. Something waiting. Listening. Something in the air. And then, behind him-a sound. Not loud. Not threatening.

Laughter.

Soft, like a summer memory.

He turned around.

And there she stood.

Elara.

At the opposite end of the field, sunlight spilling over her like honey. Her hair was longer now, drawn up in a loose knot, with a few strands rising in the wind. She was wearing a light linen gown that swirled about her knees, and her arms were full of stalks of lavender. She hadn't seen him yet. Maybe she had and was pretending not to.

Ethan rose slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment into pieces of unreality.

"Elara?" he said, not trusting the space between them.

She turned, and the years fell away. Same eyes-gray-green, wide, and thoughtful. Same tilt of her head, interested but cautious.

"I thought you were gone for good," she said softly.

"I thought you were."

There was a silence between them. Not awkward. Just. old.

He took a step nearer. "I got back yesterday."

"I know," she said. "Clara told me."

Of course she had. Lavender Hill breathed its news like pollen-carried on breezes, passed in glances and murmurs over cinnamon scones.

"I hadn't expected to see you here," he said.

"I never left," she said, her eyes searching his. "Not really."

She gazed out at the fields. "They're blooming earlier this year. The ground's warmer. The rains were soft."

Ethan nodded, his voice low. "They remembered me."

Elara's smile deepened, the edges touched by something sad. "They always do."

They walked in silence down the rows, together but not quite, side by side. The wind whipped around them, teasing her hair, rustling the plants like whispers beneath their feet.

"Why are you here, really?" she asked after a while.

He hesitated. "I needed to get away. The city... wasn't home anymore."

She nodded, not pressing. She never did. That was part of what had made her different.

After a moment, she leaned forward and plucked a stalk of lavender, pinching it between her fingers. "Your grandmother taught me to plant these," she said to him. "When I was twelve. She said they do best when they're planted slowly, not rushed."

"I remember," Ethan whispered. "She always said lavender remembers who tends it."

Elara handed him the stalk. "So you'd best be gentle. It remembers more than it forgives."

Their fingers brushed. For an instant. But that was all it needed. That electricity-years old, never dormant-sparked back to life.

She walked away, the lavender field undulating around them in waves of wind and perfume.

"I have to go," she said quietly. "The market opens soon."

Ethan saw the moment slip away. "Will I see you again?"

She paused. "Only if you look."

And then she was walking away, steps light and sure along the winding earth path that led back toward town.

Ethan remained standing long after she was out of view, the stem of lavender still grasped in his hand. The scent lingered on his skin, subtle and haunting.

It was only then that he noticed something on the bench.

A piece of paper, folded, lying exactly where he'd been sitting.

He picked it up, heart suddenly unsure. Unfolded it.

One line, written in looping, familiar script:

"Some things don't fade. They bloom again-when you're ready."