Chapter 1 #2
Her sneakers echoed against the wood as she crossed to the center of the room. The front counter curved to her right— new, clearly custom-built, with a white-trimmed pastry case that was still empty and waiting. Waiting for her. The glass gleamed despite the dust, pristine and untouched.
She could already picture it full. Flaky galettes in the summer, cinnamon knots in the winter, those plum and almond tarts her grandmother used to make when the fruit truck came up from Augusta in August.
Behind the counter, the kitchen opened up through a curved archway.
Hazel could see the soft sage cabinetry from here, the butcher block counters, the matte black accents that grounded everything.
It was all there, all ready. Like someone had imagined exactly what she would need and stopped just short of telling her: this is yours.
Her throat tightened and she looked away, unable to fight the sudden and overwhelming rush of emotion that swelled low in her chest.
But it wasn’t hers yet, not really, not until she decided. Not unless she wanted to stay. Not unless she was willing to give up everything that awaited her, back in Boston.
Along the opposite wall of the shelves, there was a low antique console table, and that was where her breath caught.
The clock.
It was old, wood polished smooth with time, the brass hands paused between minutes. She remembered that chime. Every hour on the hour, soft and low and as warm as a lullaby. Her grandmother’s bedroom had smelled like cedar and fabric softener and this clock’s gentle toll.
And next to it, leaning against the wall, were photos.
Black and white, framed and faded, their faces just slightly turned, just blurred enough to be almost anonymous.
But Hazel knew them. Knew the curl of her own hair at eight, the way her mother’s hands had always looked mid-motion, caught in a laugh or a stir.
Her grandmother, centered in them all, anchoring the frame like she had always anchored the house.
And then, the tin.
Hazel stepped forward and reached for it before she meant to.
It was square and dented at one corner, the ivory enamel painted with tiny violets, edges chipped from decades of use.
Her fingers brushed the lid, cool and familiar, and when she opened it, there they were.
Recipe cards, dozens of them. Her grandmother’s handwriting again, annotated in the margins with notes like too dry last time, add milk or Hazel liked this one best.
That same ache pressed against her chest so fast, so sharp, that she had to lift a palm to her sternum, trying to soothe the pain from the outside. The letter crinkled softly in her grasp.
She closed the box and set it down with both hands.
And when she turned back toward the rest of the bakery— the built-in bench beneath the window, still bare; the empty bookshelf next to it, waiting to be filled; the menu board untouched, slate gray and silent— Hazel felt it all rise in her at once.
This wasn’t just a building, it was an offering. A quiet, unspoken promise.
Hazel lingered there for another moment, fingers still curled loosely around the edge of the letter, the paper growing damp from the warmth of her palm.
But the pressure was rising again at the back of her throat, too fast this time.
Grief and regret and a thousand unsaid things pressing in at the edges of her ribcage like storm surge.
She turned on instinct, feet carrying her to the front door before her mind could argue. When the outside air met her skin again, she breathed it in too sharply— cool wind edged with memory, and a sting that settled into the hollows of her cheeks.
She crossed the threshold and sank down onto the stoop, knees bending until she was folded forward, her elbows on her thighs and her forehead resting against the heel of her hand.
She let her breath tremble out of her, slow and uneven.
Her body pressed in on itself, like she could hide in her own shadow, disappear into the shape of someone smaller.
Someone who hadn’t left. Someone who visited more often. Someone who’d answered the phone sooner.
There was too much of her grandmother in there. Too much intention. Too much love. Hazel didn’t know if she was worthy of any of it.
The scent of lavender was still in her hair, somehow. And still in her lungs, a cruel reminder threaded in every breath.
The sound of footsteps didn’t register at first. They came light and certain up the sidewalk, more rhythm than interruption, and then they paused.
And stayed paused. Just long enough to suggest that she wasn’t alone anymore— that someone had stumbled upon her here, like this, and had chosen to stay. To wait.
Hazel didn’t lift her head. She didn’t have it in her. It was taking everything she had just to keep the tears at bay, to fight against the burning that prickled behind her eyes and at the back of her throat.
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 sound almost a 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 of what-ifs that 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 got just the 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.