The next morning, Elara woke to silence—not the oppressive kind, but the gentle hush of a world still deciding what kind of day it would be. Light seeped through the worn curtains in ribbons, catching dust motes as they danced lazily through the air.
She stayed in bed longer than usual, her fingers brushing over the folded edge of her grandmother's second letter, which she hadn't dared open yet. The first had been a thunderclap. The second felt like an unopened door.
Her thoughts drifted to Rowan.
His words from the night before still echoed in her mind. "You don't have to be anything other than who you are now." It had been a simple sentence, but it struck at the root of something she hadn't realized she was still hiding—her guilt. Not just for leaving, but for building a life away from everything that had shaped her.
As she made her way downstairs, the scent of dried lavender greeted her like a memory. She brewed coffee, poured it into her grandmother's favorite chipped mug, and walked out into the morning.
The fields had changed. Not dramatically, but in the subtle way that meant progress. The trimmed stalks stood straighter. Weeds were losing their hold. The soil looked healthier, darker. Like it was breathing again.
She wandered toward the old shed Rowan had helped her unlock. Inside were tools, cracked flowerpots, empty jars labeled in her grandmother's spidery handwriting—sleep blend, migraine tea, garden ward. There was a worn wooden chest in the back, partially hidden beneath a tarp.
Elara tugged it open and found bundles of dried herbs, old journals, and a faded leather-bound notebook. She opened it slowly. It was her grandmother's handwriting again, this time more hurried, less precise.
"Elara has always been like spring lightning—bright, fast, and never in one place for long. But even the wind longs for something to return to."
She turned the page.
"If she ever reads this, I hope she understands that love does not expire in absence. It waits. It endures. It grows beneath the soil, even when the surface lies fallow."
Elara closed the book and pressed it to her chest, her eyes stinging.
She wasn't ready to read the second letter.
But she was getting closer.
A soft knock startled her. She turned to find Rowan leaning against the shed doorway, holding a brown paper bag and wearing a crooked smile.
"Didn't want to interrupt, but I brought muffins. Blueberry and something with ginger that I can't pronounce."
"You're going to spoil me," Elara said, wiping her eyes before he could see too much.
"Good," he replied, handing her the bag. "Everyone deserves a little spoiling."
They sat under the old maple tree, sharing breakfast on the crooked bench her grandfather had built decades ago. The wood creaked beneath them, but the air was warm and the silence between them, comfortable.
"Tell me something you've never told anyone," Elara said suddenly, surprising even herself.
Rowan arched a brow. "Going deep before muffins are finished? Bold."
She grinned. "You can handle it."
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I almost didn't stay in Windmere. After Lottie passed, I got offered a research position down south—near the dunes. It was a good job. Steady money. Future and all that."
"But you didn't take it."
"No," he said, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I realized I was already rooted here. Not just because of the land. But because of what she taught me about staying. About putting things back together, even when they break."
He glanced at her then, as if wondering if she understood what he meant.
Elara nodded slowly. "It's scary, isn't it? Choosing to stay."
Rowan looked up at the canopy of leaves. "Sometimes scarier than leaving."
They sat in stillness, broken only by the hum of bees drifting through the lavender rows. Rowan's hand brushed hers, not by accident. She didn't pull away.
"I used to think love was something you had to earn," Elara said quietly. "Be perfect. Be strong. Be... everything someone else needed. But maybe it's also about letting someone see the cracks and not looking away."
Rowan turned toward her fully then, his voice low. "I see them, Elara. And I'm still here."
The words wrapped around her like warmth. She hadn't realized how cold she'd been until that moment.
"I want to show you something," she said, standing.
He followed her to the edge of the field, to a spot near the fence where the lavender had grown wilder than the rest. Elara knelt and pulled back the branches to reveal a small marker—weathered stone, half-hidden by moss.
"My father planted this patch after my mother died. He said it was her favorite spot in the garden. I haven't visited it since I left."
Rowan crouched beside her, his expression reverent. "It's beautiful."
"She used to sit here in the evenings," Elara said. "Said the wind sounded like the sea through the stalks."
They sat together in silence, honoring the space. And when Rowan reached for her hand again, this time she laced her fingers through his.
That evening, as twilight settled over the farm and the lavender fields glowed faintly in the dusk, Elara opened the second letter.
Dearest Elara,
If you are reading this, then I've gone where the wind carries old women who love fiercely and speak rarely of their own hearts.
I don't regret many things in life, but I do regret how little I told you how proud I was of you. Not for your degrees or jobs or city apartment, but for the way you kept moving forward when everything tried to pull you down. I saw the weight you carried. And I saw how you smiled through it.
This house, this land—it's not just yours now because of blood. It's yours because you were always meant to return. Not just to restore the fields. But to restore yourself.
You will love again, Elara. And you will be loved—messy, imperfect, and true.
And when that time comes, don't run. Not again.
Love you forever,
—Lottie
Elara pressed the letter to her lips and let the tears fall.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, she knew this:
She wasn't alone.
She was rooted.
And she was beginning—again.