part 23 : soft thunder

The next morning, Fiona stepped onto her porch with bare feet and a cup of warm tea in her hands. The air was cool and still, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the world was holding its breath. The sun was just rising, stretching its golden fingers over the hills, and the scent of dew and sea salt clung to everything.

That's when she saw it.

A single lavender bloom, small and delicate, tucked carefully between the pages of a book she'd left open the night before. Her breath caught. She didn't touch it right away. She only stared, the cup hovering at her lips, forgotten.

A whisper of a memory stirred inside her.

Lavender fields under a starlit sky. A dream that wasn't just a dream. A feeling that had wrapped itself around her heart and wouldn't let go.

She didn't smile. Not yet.

But she didn't throw it away either.

She left the bloom there, like a secret promise folded between the pages of her life.

Later that week, while weaving through the local market with a woven basket in her hand, she stopped at a small wooden stall tucked between the honey vendors and flower carts. It was quiet, shaded by vines, and it smelled of herbs and stories.

A tiny glass jar caught her attention. The label, handwritten and tied with twine, read:

"Storm Calmer – for those who carry too much."

Something in her chest clenched.

The woman behind the counter smiled knowingly, as if she'd been expecting her. "Guy dropped that name off a few days ago," she said, her tone light. "Didn't leave much—just said someone might need it."

Fiona's fingers brushed the jar. She rolled her eyes, part amused, part annoyed, part… something else. A flicker of warmth crept up her spine before she could stop it.

She bought the tea.

Friday came like a song she wasn't ready to hear.

She didn't go to the bookstore.

She didn't dress up or wait for a moment.

She told herself it didn't matter.

And yet…

While walking through the quiet streets of the town at dusk, the wind carrying the scent of citrus blossoms and sea, she heard it.

That cello.

The notes floated in the air like smoke—slow, aching, tender. They curled around corners and wrapped around her chest before she could build a wall. She stopped under a lamppost, hidden in the shadows. Her heart stilled.

He was playing again.

But this time, the music wasn't bold or attention-seeking.

It was an apology.

And a wish.

And maybe even a prayer.

She didn't move. She just listened, the melody soaking into her like rain on dry earth. Then, just as quietly as she'd arrived, she turned and walked back into the night.

The next morning, she opened her front door and froze.

There, resting neatly against the wood, was a small envelope—cream-colored, the paper thick and textured. Her name wasn't written on it. There was no note.

She took it inside, fingers trembling slightly, and opened it at the kitchen table with the morning sun pouring through the windows.

Inside was a charcoal sketch.

It was her.

She was standing in a field of lavender, wild strands curling around her ankles. Above her, the sky swirled with movement—clouds, stars, wind—all captured in smudges and shadows. Her eyes were distant, her hair wild, and yet… she looked strong. Untamed. Real.

No message. No explanation.

Just a tiny signature in the corner—a stylized phoenix, wings outstretched in flight.

Fiona stared at the drawing for a long time. Long enough for her tea to grow cold.

Her breath hitched. Her throat ached. There was something so raw about it, so intimate. Like he'd seen her… really seen her. Not just what she showed the world. Not just the mask.

The storm. The lavender. The girl who still hadn't figured out how to stop surviving and start living.

She set the sketch down gently, her hand lingering over it.

Then, almost to herself, barely above a whisper, she said,

"What are you doing to me?"

And for the first time in a very long while…

She didn't know if she wanted to run.

Or stay.