The rain had come and gone, leaving behind a town washed clean. Puddles shimmered like little mirrors along the cracked sidewalk as Elara made her way into town the next morning, her boots crunching over gravel. The air smelled of wet cedar and salt, and the sky held a moody kind of light—the kind that made everything feel suspended between endings and beginnings.
Elara hadn't planned on returning to Windmere's center so soon. But Rowan had mentioned the local nursery might carry the specific soil blend her grandmother used for lavender rootings, and besides, part of her wanted to see the town through her adult eyes. To walk its streets not as a visitor or runaway, but as someone who might stay.
The nursery was tucked behind the bakery, its windows steamed from the ovens next door. Inside, the scent of warm bread and loamy earth wrapped around her like an old quilt. A soft bell chimed as she stepped in, and a small woman with silver-streaked hair popped her head around a shelf of potted ferns.
"Elara, as I live and breathe," the woman exclaimed, a wide smile breaking across her face. "I didn't think you'd really come back."
Elara blinked, caught off guard. "You know who I am?"
"Of course I do," the woman said, brushing her hands on her apron as she approached. "I'm Martha. Your grandmother and I were close. She talked about you like you were her own breath."
Elara swallowed the lump rising in her throat. "I wasn't around much."
Martha's expression softened. "She understood. But she always believed you'd find your way back to what matters."
As they walked through the aisles, Martha pointed out soil mixes, root supplements, and seed packets, explaining each with the kind of care only someone who loved the land could offer. Elara listened, asked questions, and slowly began to feel that strange, aching sense again—that she'd been away from something vital for far too long.
She gathered a small cart of supplies and headed to the counter when a familiar voice drifted through the open doorway.
"I figured I might find you here."
Rowan leaned casually against the frame, his dark hair tousled by the wind, a small cut on his cheek where a bramble had likely taken its due. He held a wrapped bundle under his arm.
Elara smiled despite herself. "You stalk all your gardening partners?"
"Only the stubborn ones," he said with a wink. He handed her the bundle. "For you. Martha told me you hadn't eaten."
Inside was a still-warm scone—lavender and honey, her grandmother's favorite combination.
She looked at it for a long moment, emotions tumbling under the surface like waves. Then she took a bite. It was soft, just the right amount of sweet. And it tasted like memory.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Rowan nodded, then added, "Want help hauling that back to the farm?"
They loaded the supplies into the back of her truck, and the drive back was quiet but not uncomfortable. The landscape rolled by, wet fields and fences gleaming in the returning sun. When they arrived, the farmhouse looked smaller somehow, framed against the openness of the land. But also sturdier, like it had been waiting.
They spent the afternoon transplanting the healthiest lavender shoots into refreshed soil, Rowan gently guiding Elara through each step. They laughed when a curious robin landed on her shovel. She asked about his work—restoring native plant life in the dunes, working with local conservation groups. He spoke with quiet pride, and Elara admired how rooted he seemed, like he'd grown into the land the way trees do.
As dusk settled, they took a break on the porch. The boards creaked beneath their weight, and the air was filled with the scent of damp grass and the last notes of rain.
Rowan reached into his satchel and pulled out an old photograph. It was faded and creased, but Elara immediately recognized her grandmother. She was laughing, eyes closed, head tilted back, her arms wrapped around a much younger Rowan—barely older than sixteen.
"I didn't know you'd known her that long," Elara said, surprised.
"She saved me," Rowan replied, voice quiet. "I was seventeen. My mom had died the year before. I was angry, lost. Lottie found me stealing tools from her shed. Instead of calling the cops, she gave me a job. Made me tea. Taught me how to plant things that would last."
Elara looked down at the photograph, a knot forming in her chest. "She had a gift for seeing what people tried to hide."
Rowan nodded. "Including you."
Elara didn't answer right away. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sweater.
"I ran from this place because I thought if I stayed, I'd never become anything more than the girl who left. But I think... I think I was afraid that if I stayed, I'd never stop feeling everything I didn't want to."
The words tumbled out without permission, like a confession scraped raw by the wind.
Rowan leaned closer, not touching her, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
"You don't have to be anything other than who you are now," he said gently. "And maybe it's okay if some things still hurt."
The porch light flickered on above them. In its golden glow, Elara saw Rowan clearly—his quiet steadiness, the way his eyes searched hers not to read but to understand. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't want to be anywhere else.
Not in her city apartment. Not in the past. Just here.
With him.