I twist the lid on and set it aside, just as Grandma wrote in the margin.
We don’t rush it.
The waiting feels intentional.
And then, when the time is right, and I open it, the scent blooms immediately.
Honey, yes, but deeper. Rounder. Wild mint and something floral I can’t quite name, like late summer just before dusk.
It smells of my childhood. Of my grandmother’s kitchen. Like my mother’s laugh when she forgot to be afraid.
My eyes sting.
“Well?” Jesse asks softly.
I dip a clean spoon in and taste.
The world doesn’t explode. There’s no lightning bolt or choir of angels.
But I settle.
It’s smooth. Comforting. Layered in a way that feels intentional.
Someone thought carefully about how this would land on another person’s tongue. How it would make them feel.
“Oh,” I whisper.
Wyatt watches my face. “Good?”
I nod, unable to speak. “It’s… right.”
Marshall exhales deeply. Jesse smiles, quieter than usual.
I taste it again. Slower.
And suddenly I don’t feel like I’m chasing ghosts or fixing mistakes that were never mine.
I feel connected.
To my grandmother, sealing jars with care.
To my mother, dreaming of escape and safety.
To myself, standing here now, choosing not out of fear, but out of love.
I set the jar down carefully, palms resting on either side of it.
“I don’t know what this becomes,” I say honestly. “If it stays just for me, or if I share it. Or if it turns into something new.”
Wyatt is gentle. “You don’t have to know yet.”
Jesse grins. “But if you do decide to sell it, I want first dibs.”
Marshall nods. “Second.”
I laugh again, wiping at my eyes. “Deal.”
I look at the jar one more time.
