Chapter 4 First Sight Of Clara

Morning had progressed to late morning by the time Ethan returned to the cottage, the stem of lavender still behind his ear like a crown by error. He was quieter than he'd been since his arrival, but not sad-pensive. Elara's arrival had stirred up things in him he'd thought long dead. Or perhaps it wasn't just her. Perhaps it was the town itself, the scent of the lavender fields, his grandmother's spirit in the creaking floorboards and gentle wind.

He made himself a pot of tea-lavender and lemon balm, just like she used to have-and sat on the porch with an old, leather-bound book from the bookshelf in the living room. The pages were half-filled with recipes in a code he couldn't understand, dried flowers, and random lines of poetry in his grandmother's weak handwriting. He read them silently, letting the rhythm of her words soothe something troubled inside him.

Then there was a voice.

Bright. Crisp. And strangely melodic.

"Are you the grandson?"

Ethan turned.

At the bottom of the porch steps was a little girl-no older than eight or nine, with honey-blonde ringlets that caught the sun like gold threads. Her eyes were a bright blue, the same shade as the sky after a spring storm, and her dress was cotton-white, dirt-smeared. In her hand she clutched a woven basket filled with tiny lavender sachets.

"Yes," Ethan said, startled into a smile. "That's me. Ethan."

The girl looked at him with the kind of open curiosity children always carried-half wonder, half judgment.

"I'm Clara," she said proudly. "Elara's daughter."

He blinked. "Elara's...?"

She nodded, matter-of-fact. "She didn't tell you?"

"No," he said slowly, his thoughts spinning. "She didn't mention a daughter."

Clara's eyes sparkled with mischief. "She forgets things sometimes. Like when to stop making lavender jam. We have so many jars."

Ethan laughed despite the sudden storm behind his ribs. Elara had a daughter. A daughter with her smile. Her piercing eyes. The same way of tilting her head when she looked at someone, as if listening not just to their voice but to their silence.

"Do you live nearby?" he asked.

"We live in the yellow house at the edge of the fields. Mama says it used to be the schoolteacher's house. I like it because it has the smell of old stories."

Ethan leaned forward, his interest piqued. "You like stories?"

Clara climbed the first step of the porch as though it were a beckoning. "Love them. Mama reads to me every night. Sometimes poetry. Sometimes fairytales. But she doesn't like the ones with sad endings. She says the world has enough sadness already."

Ethan swallowed the knot in his throat. "She's right."

Clara scowled at him, eyes squinting. "You're sad."

He laughed softly. "I suppose I am.".

"But not broken," she replied pragmatically, sitting beside him on the step. "'That's what Mama said when she saw the lavender field return after the frost. 'Not dead. Just waiting.'"

She dipped her hand into her basket and pulled out a small cloth, which she handed to him. A sachet of dried lavender and mint, tied in a silver ribbon.

"It's for sleeping," she said. "You look like you don't sleep very well."

Ethan accepted it with a grateful nod. "You're a thoughtful one, Clara."

She beamed. "I help Mama at the market. And with the bees. I don't like the bees much, but she says we need them. Like quiet. And tea."

Ethan smiled, a warmth seeping through his chest. "Do you normally talk this much?"

"Only when I like someone."

That entertained him. Clara was sunshine personified-direct, undaunted, and overflowing with a vitality that tugged at the corners of his heart.

"Want to go see the little greenhouse?" she asked, already bouncing up again. "It's behind the cottage. Mama says it's where the 'magic happens.' But I think it's just lemon trees and herbs."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Show me."

The greenhouse was a small, unassuming structure of glass and weathered wood, tucked away behind a tall rosemary bush and a tilting birdbath. It was warm within and fragrant with earth, citrus, and something else-something soft and floral, like memory made physical.

There were clay pots lined up on the shelves, each one labeled in Elara's looping handwriting. Lavender, chamomile, thyme, lemon verbena. There were even orchids among the vines, delicate and gleaming.

Clara picked a marigold and held it up to him. "Mama says these are for protection. But I think they're just pretty."

"I think she might be right on both counts."

He reached out to touch one of the lavender plants, the scent rushing into his lungs like an old song. Clara began to hum-absently, sweetly-as she sorted the pots by color.

You know," she said out of the blue, "Mama still walks the fields at sunset. She thinks no one sees, but I do."

Ethan turned to her, heart racing. "Why does she do that?"

"Who knows?" Clara shrugged. "Maybe she's waiting for something. Or someone. She never said. But she always comes back with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes."

He was quiet for a while, letting the completeness of what she'd told him settle in.

"Clara," he said quietly, "do you think... would it be all right if I went to see her again?"

Clara regarded him knowingly. The kind of look children and old people could pull off.

"I think she'd like that. She says your name like it's something fragile."

She skipped towards the door, sunlight chasing her feet. Then she turned, looked back.

"I'm going to the market with her tomorrow. You should come."

And then she was gone. A whirlwind of laughter and lavender and something Ethan hadn't felt in a long time-hope.

He was left standing in the greenhouse, the sachet still held in his hand, the scent of Clara's presence lingering like a promise.

The fields outside whispered in the wind.