Three days later, the wind changed.
Elara felt it first in her bones, the way her joints ached in the morning, the same way her grandmother used to say, "Storm's coming—not rain, something else. The kind that shakes things loose."
That morning, Elara found herself staring at the mirror in the upstairs hallway. She barely recognized the woman looking back. Not because she had changed so much, but because she had finally stopped pretending not to see herself.
She tied her hair back with one of her grandmother's old scarves—lavender silk, frayed at the edges—and headed outside. The sky was overcast, a soft gray lid pressing gently over the world. The lavender rows shimmered with dew.
The day ahead was supposed to be simple: harvest a few bundles, visit the market, and swing by the carpenter to ask about repairing the broken greenhouse door. But none of those tasks explained the strange pull in her chest. Like something needed to happen. Or perhaps had already started.
She wasn't surprised when Rowan appeared near the property gate, leaning against his truck, arms crossed, looking like he had waited there long enough to wonder if it was a mistake.
"You're early," she said, walking toward him.
He shrugged, his smile slow and unreadable. "Didn't sleep. Thought I'd stop by before work."
She stepped closer. "Everything okay?"
He hesitated. "Actually, I wanted to ask you something."
Elara tilted her head, studying him.
"There's an event tonight," Rowan said. "The Summer's End Bonfire. Down at the dunes. It's something we do every year. Music, food, the whole town kind of... exhales. I'd like you to come with me."
Elara blinked. It was the first invitation that had come with both weight and possibility. Not a casual suggestion. A request. One that asked her to step a little deeper into this life she hadn't yet claimed.
"I—" she began, then paused. "Let me think about it?"
Rowan nodded once. "Of course." But his eyes betrayed something else—a flicker of fear, quickly hidden.
She hated that. That she could cause it in someone so steady.
As he turned to leave, she reached out impulsively and touched his arm. "It's not a no," she said. "It's just... the past still echoes sometimes."
His gaze softened. "I'll see you tonight. Whether at the fire or just in the stars."
—
By late afternoon, Elara had cleaned the kitchen twice and re-shelved a dozen jars in the pantry. Her nerves were louder than her thoughts.
The last time she had been to the dunes, she had been seventeen. That summer had held a golden, reckless kind of hope. She'd kissed her first love under a sky smeared with orange. She'd written her name in the sand and believed it would never fade.
And then everything fell apart.
Her mother's death. Her father's withdrawal. Her own desperate escape to college, to anywhere but here.
But this time was different.
When she arrived at the dunes just before sunset, she was wearing jeans that still smelled faintly of lavender, a knit sweater the color of stormclouds, and her grandmother's scarf. The ocean wind tugged at her hair, and the sound of laughter floated over the sand like smoke.
The bonfire was already crackling. Dozens of people were gathered around—families with blankets, kids darting in and out of the tall grass, musicians tuning their instruments. Rowan stood near a driftwood bench, speaking with a woman in overalls who laughed loudly and waved at Elara the moment she approached.
"You must be the famous granddaughter," the woman said, grinning. "I'm June. Rowan told me not to scare you off."
"He failed," Elara said with a smile.
June laughed again and drifted off, leaving Rowan and Elara facing each other in the growing twilight.
"You came," he said, his voice quieter than usual.
"I said it wasn't a no."
Rowan offered her a cup of cider. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
They sat on a worn blanket near the fire. As the sun dipped lower, casting the dunes in molten gold, music began to drift from the edge of the gathering. A slow, lilting guitar melody accompanied by a voice that sounded older than the ocean.
People began to dance.
Not in any choreographed way—just slow, spontaneous movements, as natural as the tide.
Rowan glanced at her, then extended a hand. "Dance with me?"
"I'm a terrible dancer," she warned.
"Good," he said. "So am I."
They moved into the soft circle of dancers, the firelight painting them in flickers of orange and red. At first, Elara felt awkward, her hands unsure, her steps hesitant.
But Rowan pulled her gently closer, his hand resting at her back. His other found hers with ease.
And slowly, her body remembered what her mind had forgotten—how to trust movement, how to let herself be seen without fear.
As the song changed, Elara found herself laughing softly, her cheek brushing Rowan's shoulder.
"You know," she murmured, "I always thought this place was too small for me."
Rowan's breath was warm against her temple. "And now?"
"I think... maybe I was the one who was too closed off for it."
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "We carry our own walls sometimes. Even when no one else asks us to."
The fire crackled behind them, and Elara saw something in his gaze she hadn't let herself fully feel before.
Longing.
But not the desperate kind.
The patient kind. The kind that waits—not because it has no choice, but because it's worth it.
"I don't want to leave," she whispered. "Not this time."
Rowan leaned down, their foreheads touching. "Then stay."
The kiss was quiet—no thunder, no grand crescendo. Just warmth and breath and the kind of closeness that feels like a promise. When they pulled apart, neither spoke. They didn't need to.
The stars were beginning to scatter across the sky, and Elara tilted her face upward.
Her grandmother's words echoed through her again.
"You will love again. And you will be loved—messy, imperfect, and true."
And here she was—messy, imperfect.
And being held anyway.