Whispers of Lavender

Chapter 1: Ethan's Departure from the City

Whispers of Lavender

The city never really slept. It pulsed. Blinked. Lived in the perpetual vibration of tires rolling over pavement and neon lights glinting off glass. Where most of them called home. A cage masquerading as silk to Ethan's eyes.

Rain drummed softly on the hood of his jacket as he stood before the bookstore he had envisioned building with his late mother. "Hale & Vine" stood in delicate letters above the entrance-still unmarred by time, still scented softly with sandalwood and the lavender sachets she used to leave among the shelves.

But dreams had vanished.

The store was closed now, windows black, the "For Sale" sign a brutal stop to years of stifled grief. Ethan remained rigid for what seemed like forever, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, his gaze fixed on the "V" of the sign-the sweep of the letter echoing the shape of his mother's script.

She would have loathed this version of him. Hollowed. Removed. Detached from that which made life soft.

He could still listen to her voice in his head, gentle but firm. "You can't grow where your roots are already dead, Ethan."

That was the reason that he had to leave.

He turned on his heel and walked away to his truck, the grey din of the city fading behind him. There were no people on the streets at this time, just the blue pre-dawn light seeping into the streets like a mist. The air was thick with the feeling of something coming to an end-and the soft promise of something beginning.

In the passenger seat of his truck lay a creased envelope, edges weathered away with time. In it, there was a handwritten letter from his grandmother. The last letter she ever penned when she had passed away, months before the world had fallen into an uproar.

It read only:

"Come home, Ethan. The fields need your footsteps back, and the lavender needs the laughter back."

He hadn't laughed in years. But he was going home.

Not just for her. Not just for the quiet.

For him.

For the version of him that he tended to lose among deadlines, coffee shops, and the wail of sirens outside apartment buildings.

For the boy who once believed in gardens and words and the way that stories could sew things together again.

He drove until the horizon warped. Until glass went green. Until the earth opened up in front of him in huge, soft clouds of gold and lilac. The road grew tighter, curled around hills, and eventually passed him by the worn town sign: Willow's End – Pop. 2,364.

The town had not changed at all. Still smelled like a few-day-old rain and pine. Still kept the smell of childhoods outlined on fences and whispered around creeks. He rolled down the window slightly as the breeze picked up-the unmistakable sweet scent of lavender on the wind.

And there it was: The Hale Farm.

Encircled by soft hills, the pastures extended for acres, blooming even in the harsh, early spring. Lavender swayed like poetry in motion, waving in waves with every breeze. It hadn't wilted. Not like him.

Ethan stepped out of the truck, boots crunching gravel on the driveway, and took a deep breath. The house was just as he remembered it-whitewashed, the shutters slightly askew, the porch swing still swaying despite having been left undisturbed. Time had weathered it, but not devoured it.

It still stood.

Inside was the scent of cedar and soil. And her.

His grandmother's diary on the windowsill, spidery writing winding across the opened pages like untamed vines. She wrote with the window ajar, assuring that the wind gave her better words. He came to the last page, eyes drawn to her last entry:

"The heart always knows where it left its gentleness."

He closed the diary respectfully.

His own hand drifted over to the vacant bookcase, formerly dusty but now uncluttered: he imagined it filled up again, first with her own cherished poetry, then maybe the ones he might try to write. The ones he'd never have the time to write in the city. The ones for quiet boys who cared too much and fields of lavender which called your name when no other would.

His gaze went up to the window and across the field where something-or someone-stirred.

A girl.

No-a woman now.

She stood at the edge of the field, lilac to her waist, the sun turning her hair into a wild golden halo. She looked out over the valley as if she belonged. As if the land spoke to her. She did not look his way-but something in his chest turned. Recognition lit, unspoken and unknown, but not unwanted.

He had not seen her for years.

Could it be. Elara?

The wind shifted. Brought the lavender to him.

And though she still didn't look his way, Ethan could have sworn-for a moment-there was a whisper.

His name.

Soft.

Familiar.

As if it had never been turned under the soil at all.