The days after the bonfire felt like something between a waking dream and the first pages of a new chapter—fresh, strange, and humming with possibility.
Elara found herself humming while trimming the lavender stalks, her fingers less tense than they'd been in years. Rowan came by more often now, not with excuses but with intentions—helping her haul compost, checking the irrigation lines, and bringing his quiet presence like it was the most natural thing in the world.
One afternoon, they walked the length of the field in near silence, pausing to watch a pair of finches darting through the rows. Rowan brushed his fingers along her arm, and she leaned into him without thinking.
"You're different here," he said softly, as if the birds might scatter the moment.
"I feel different," she admitted. "Lighter, maybe."
"Less haunted?"
"Don't get carried away," she said, smiling.
But the truth was—it felt true. The sharp edges of her guilt, her grief, and her self-imposed exile had begun to soften. There was still weight, still history, but it didn't crush her anymore. And more than that, there was this—Rowan. The growing certainty of something tender but real.
Until the letter came.
It arrived one morning, tucked in among the bills and seed catalogs. Elara nearly missed it—no return address, just her name in neat, unfamiliar script.
She opened it at the kitchen table, a mug of tea growing cold beside her.
Elara—I know I'm the last person you want to hear from, but I found out you were back in Windmere and felt like I had to reach out. You left without saying goodbye. I think I deserved at least that much.I'm in town this weekend. Just passing through. If you want to talk—really talk—I'll be at Red Fern Café on Saturday at noon.
—Jonah
Jonah.
Elara stared at the name until it blurred. Her first love. Her almost-everything. The boy she left without a word ten years ago because staying had hurt too much.
She folded the letter slowly and stared out the window. Her fingers trembled, but not from fear—more from the kind of old, unhealed wound that still bled if touched the wrong way.
She didn't want to see him.
She also didn't know if she could stay away.
—
That night, she told Rowan everything.
They sat on the porch, stars hidden behind a curtain of soft clouds. She clutched the letter in her lap, her knuckles white.
"I don't know why he wrote," she said. "Maybe closure. Or maybe to punish me. I never explained. I just… ran."
Rowan listened, silent and still, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I was in love with him," she admitted. "I thought we'd get married. And then my mom died, and everything cracked. He wanted to help, but I didn't want to be helped. I wanted to disappear."
"And so you did."
She nodded. "I left everything. Including him."
Rowan looked out toward the dark horizon, his jaw tight. "Do you want to see him?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't want to go back. But I also don't want to keep pretending it didn't matter."
A long pause. Then Rowan said, "You should go."
Elara blinked, caught off guard.
"You need to," he continued. "Not for him. For you. To face what's still unfinished."
She searched his face. "Won't it... hurt you?"
He gave a small, sad smile. "It might. But I'd rather hurt for a minute than stand between you and your peace."
Her eyes burned with tears. "You really mean that?"
"I do." He reached for her hand. "You deserve to be whole, Elara. Even if it means looking back before you can move forward."
—
Saturday arrived too fast.
Elara stood in front of the mirror, her palms sweating. She wore a simple navy blouse and jeans—unremarkable, safe. A sliver of lavender silk peeked from her pocket, like an anchor.
The Red Fern Café hadn't changed much. It still had crooked tables and the smell of burnt espresso lingering in the air. When she walked in, she spotted Jonah immediately.
He hadn't aged the way she thought he would. His jaw was still square, his eyes still a stormy green. But there was something new in his posture—weariness, maybe. Or distance.
"Elara," he said, standing.
"Hi, Jonah."
They sat across from each other, both unsure of what to say. Ten years compressed into a heartbeat.
"You look well," he offered.
"You, too."
He smiled faintly. "I heard about your grandmother. I'm sorry. She was a hell of a woman."
Elara nodded, grateful. "She was."
Jonah stirred his coffee, silent for a beat. Then, "Why did you leave?"
It wasn't accusatory. Just a question pulled from an old wound.
"I was drowning," Elara said honestly. "After my mom died, everything became too much. I couldn't breathe. And I didn't know how to let anyone in. Not even you."
He swallowed. "I would've tried. You know that, right?"
"I know. And I loved you for it. But I couldn't handle being loved back then. Not when I couldn't love myself."
Jonah looked down. "I waited, for a while. Then I got angry. Then I just... moved on."
"I don't blame you."
A pause stretched long between them. Finally, he said, "So... why come today?"
"Because I didn't want to keep carrying ghosts," she said. "You were important to me, Jonah. You mattered. And I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye."
He nodded slowly. "I forgive you, Elara. I think I forgave you years ago. I just didn't know it until now."
She smiled through the tightness in her chest. "Thank you."
They left the café together, the air crisp with autumn's promise.
Jonah stopped at the corner. "Is there someone now?" he asked.
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "His name is Rowan."
"And he makes you happy?"
"He makes me brave."
Jonah smiled, a little wistfully. "Then I'm glad."
They parted with a hug—soft, final, kind. No lingering ache. No what-ifs.
Just goodbye.
—
That evening, Elara found Rowan in the field, checking the irrigation line.
He looked up when she approached, his brow furrowed with uncertainty. She walked straight to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
"It's done," she whispered. "And I'm still here."
Rowan's hands settled around her, warm and sure.
They stood in silence, the lavender swaying around them.
And in the hush between their heartbeats, Elara realized something else.
She wasn't healing for Rowan.
She was healing for herself.
But because of him—because of what they were building—she finally had the courage to do it.