The sun rose higher the next morning, burning away the last wisps of fog to reveal a sky that stretched wide and endless above Windmere. Elara stood on the porch of the old farmhouse, wrapped in a thick cardigan, the cool morning air teasing loose strands of hair from her braid. The lavender fields, though still wild and unruly, seemed to shimmer faintly in the soft sunlight, as if waking alongside her.
Inside the house, the letter from her grandmother sat carefully folded on the kitchen table, a silent invitation that Elara had not yet dared to open again. The words had settled deep inside her, stirring memories and emotions she had buried beneath years of work and distance.
After the labor of yesterday—pruning, clearing, and coaxing the stubborn garden hose back to life—Elara felt the ache of muscles long unused but also something unfamiliar: a spark of belonging. The land was like a silent friend, waiting for her return, forgiving her absence with every breath of wind and every cluster of lavender.
Rowan had promised to return by midday to continue their work, and as Elara prepared a simple breakfast, she felt a flutter of anticipation that surprised her. She wasn't sure if it was the company or the growing sense that maybe, just maybe, she could find something here to hold onto.
The crunch of gravel announced Rowan's arrival before she saw him. He moved with the easy confidence of someone at home in this place, carrying a worn leather satchel filled with gardening tools, his eyes scanning the rows of lavender with careful attention.
"Morning," he called, tipping his hat. "Ready to wrestle more weeds?"
Elara smiled, feeling a lightness in her chest she hadn't experienced in years. "Bring it on."
Together they moved into the fields, hands working side by side. As they cleared thickets and dug into the soil, Rowan shared stories of the land—how the lavender had been planted decades ago by Elara's grandmother, not just for beauty or fragrance, but for healing. The plant was said to soothe both body and spirit, a guardian against sorrow.
Elara listened, fascinated. She hadn't realized how deeply her grandmother had loved this land, how much of herself she had poured into every row and every seed.
At one point, Rowan paused, wiping sweat from his brow. "You know, your grandmother once told me that lavender is like life—it needs tending, patience, and sometimes pruning to grow strong."
Elara's gaze dropped to the stalks she held, rough and dry. "I suppose that applies to people, too."
Rowan's eyes met hers with something softer now, something that made her heart skip. "Especially people."
The words hung between them, fragile and charged.
A sudden movement caught their attention. Sophie, the neighborhood's golden retriever, bounded into the field, tail wagging wildly. She was a burst of sunlight and joy, tongue lolling as she darted toward Elara.
Elara knelt to scratch behind Sophie's ears, laughing as the dog nudged her hand. "You're quite the welcome committee," she said.
Rowan smiled at the scene, then glanced toward the horizon where dark clouds gathered unexpectedly. "Looks like a storm's coming. We should wrap up soon."
As the wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and earth, Elara felt a pang of hesitation. The storm was coming fast, but she didn't want to leave just yet. Not while the moment held something fragile and true.
Rowan noticed the hesitation and stepped closer, his voice low. "You okay?"
Elara nodded, though her heart raced. "Yeah. Just... it's strange. Being here. After so long."
He reached out and brushed a stray hair from her face, his fingers warm against her skin. The touch was gentle, tentative, like an unspoken question.
"I'm glad you're back," he said quietly. "This place needed you."
Her breath caught, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them—two souls reaching across the distance of years and silence.
The first raindrops fell lightly, then harder, as the storm broke. Rowan grabbed a nearby tarp, and together they ran toward the farmhouse, laughing as the rain soaked through their clothes.
Inside, dripping and breathless, they shed their wet layers and settled by the fire. The warmth of the flames mirrored the growing warmth between them, unspoken but undeniable.
Elara pulled the letter from her pocket, unfolding it once more. Rowan watched her, silent and steady.
"I never knew she felt this way," Elara whispered, voice trembling. "About love, about family."
Rowan reached out, covering her hand with his. "Sometimes love is the hardest thing to say."
They sat like that for a long moment, the fire crackling, the rain drumming on the roof—a cocoon of warmth and possibility.
When the storm finally passed, the sky was painted in soft hues of lavender and rose—the very colors of the fields outside. Elara looked out the window, feeling that maybe, just maybe, she could let the past go and start again.