There was a gentle exhale, just drawn out enough to signal intention. And then a voice, warm and sunlit and soft, drifted into the space beside her.
“You’ve got that propagation look,” the stranger said. “Too much root, not enough sun. Happens to the best of us.”
Hazel blinked. This time, she did lift her head, turning her chin just slightly in the direction of the voice.
A woman stood a few feet away, barefoot on the edge of the stone path. One hand rested on her hip, the other cradled a modest bouquet of herbs: mint, thyme, something trailing and fragrant that Hazel couldn’t quite place by scent or sight alone. She had dark, curling hair pulled into a loose knot at the top of her head and wore a brown apron smeared with soil. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and something playful in the set of her mouth. But her eyes were what stood out— dark, patient, and perceptive in a way that made Hazel’s shoulders tense automatically. She didn’t look much older than Hazel herself, but something about those eyes made her seem older. Wiser.
“I’m sorry, do I…” Hazel started, wary, pushing herself slightly more upright.
The woman smiled, the curve of her lips a little crooked. “You don’t, not yet. I’m Iris. I run Verdance, a few doors down. Plants, flowers, all things green and glorious.”
She lifted the bouquet slightly, like a peace offering. “These are for you. Your grandmother left the pots inside— a labour of love, putting those together, if Malcolm’s word can be trusted. But she wanted the herbs fresh, said they’d feel more real that way. Something for you to plant and grow and tend to all on your own.”
Hazel didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Her breath had gotten stuck on the way up, caught at the back of her throat, thick with the emotions still swirling deep within her.
Iris didn’t seem fazed by the silence. She stepped forward just a little, maintaining a respectful distance. As the wind whistled past them, the scent of earth and lemon balm pushed into Hazel’s senses, finally overtaking the lavender that still stung the inside of her nose. She took a deep, steadying breath, her eyelids fluttering for a beat. The pressure against her ribcage receded, just a little.
“I didn’t mean to intrude. Just… saw you head inside a little while ago. Figured you could use a little thyme.” She grinned at her own joke, giving her dark eyebrows a gentle wiggle. “Pun very much intended.”
Hazel huffed, the soundalmosta laugh. Her gaze drifted to the bouquet still held in Iris’s hand. The sprigs were imperfect, clipped from life, and damp at the ends. She pictured them planted in the terracotta pots, tended to and plucked from for recipes so fresh the entire bakery would carry their scent.
Startled by her own train of thought, Hazel blinked again. She swallowed and looked away, trying to quiet the unending loop ofwhat-ifsthat circled her mind.
“You doing okay?” Iris asked a beat later, her eyes lingering on Hazel’s face.
“I’m fine.”
It came out reflexively, the words slipping past her chapped lips without a second thought. But even as she said them, even as she wished she meant them, she knew how they sounded— hollow, insincere. There was no strength behind them, just a weak attempt at deflection.
“Sure you are.” Iris’s smile deepened in a way that was wry but not unkind. She shifted the bouquet in her hand and pursed her lips, thoughtful. “But if you ever feel like lying down in a patch of ferns and vanishing for a bit, I’ve gotjustthe spot. It’s practically medicinal.”
Hazel managed a half-hearted chuckle again, caught between confusion and a curious sort of amusement. “Right,” she said. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The breeze stirred once more, tugging a strand of Hazel’s hair into her mouth. She didn’t move to fix it, just let it settle there.
“If you need anything,” Iris added, her tone gentler now. “I’m probably never far. Just follow the smell of dirt and stubborn optimism. You can’t miss it.”
Hazel’s voice barely reached the air. “Thank you.”
Iris didn’t crowd the silence. She just nodded once, slow and thoughtful. Then she crouched and placed the herb bundle beside Hazel with the kind of care someone might use to lay flowers at a grave. Not dramatic, not mournful, just intentional.
“No rush,” she said. “Just plant and water when ready.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. Hazel watched her walk away, unhurried, her head tilted back to catch the sun across her warm, bronze-toned cheekbones like it was something earned. Like it had been waiting for her.
And then she was gone, slipping into a storefront just a few doors down. Just as she’d said.
Hazel stayed where she was, still hunched on the stoop. The letter rested in her lap, the herbs sat at her side, and the key remained clenched in her hand like something sacred.
The ache in her chest hadn’t lifted. Not really.
By the time Hazel made it back to her grandmother’s house, the sun had sunk below the trees, casting the yard in cool shadow. The old clapboard had once been white, though even that had begun to surrender to time. Each time Hazel visited, it seemed to be in worse shape. The Maine salt air had worn it down in patches, dulling the finish and leaving subtle trails where the wind had passed again and again.
Branches rustled gently overhead, brushing against one another like old friends leaning in close. A tall pine tree loomed out front, as straight as a lighthouse beam, its bark cracked with age. Hazel had spent wholesummers beneath it, curled into its shadow with a dog-eared book in one hand and a sweating glass of lemonade in the other. The taste of mint and sugar lingered on her tongue while cicadas hummed around her as she tried to forget the rest of the world.
Beyond the front porch, the door was still that soft, sun-washed yellow; the paint leftover from Hazel’s own bedroom on the second floor. It had once been a boring old grey until they redid it one spring after her grandmother insisted the house needed some cheer. Hazel had been fourteen, then. She’d suggested the colour on a whim, pointing at the half-empty can in the basement. Her grandmother had nodded once and said,“Why not? Every home needs a little light to come back to.”
And here it was. Still waiting for her.
