Peonies

I stayed in the chair, swinging slightly, the chains creaking softly with my movements. The air smelled of damp soil and jasmine, the way it always did after sunrise here. But even the familiar comfort of the garden felt… different.

Maybe it was because of him.

Andreis.

That boy—no, man—had a face that shouldn't belong on a farm. Blue eyes like the sea I've never seen, tattoos that told stories I hadn't read yet, and a smile that made it hard to breathe. He looked at me like he already knew me—really knew me. But how?

I looked down at my flats again, trying to hide the sudden warmth spreading across my cheeks.

"Don't you remember me?"

No. I didn't. And that frustrated me. If we'd met before, how could I forget someone like him?

I reached for a peony bloom beside the chair and absentmindedly twirled the soft petals between my fingers. Stay here, okay? And don't talk to anyone. Don't be stubborn. Marco's words echoed in my mind, but they didn't sit right. Who exactly was I not supposed to talk to?

Why would he say that?

I watched the two boys disappear around the side of the house, Marco laughing like this was just another day. Like nothing had changed. But something had. I could feel it in my bones, humming low beneath my skin—like the start of a summer storm.

The hanging chair swayed a little harder in the wind. I closed my eyes and tilted my head up to the sky, letting the sun kiss my cheeks.

I suddenly remembered something—an old photo.

I rushed back inside, my heart thudding, and climbed the stairs two at a time. In my room, I dropped to my knees in front of the bottom drawer of my study table and pulled it open. There, under old notebooks and stickers from when I was a kid, was a dusty wooden box. The clasp creaked as I opened it.

Photos.

Family gatherings, birthdays, farm events. And then—there it was.

A picture of Marco and a little boy beside him, standing near the watermelon patch. The boy had lighter hair, a shy smile, and...

Blue eyes.

Him. That was Andreis. We must've been… what, five? Six? I held the photo close to my chest, stunned.

Why didn't I remember him?

I sat back on my heels, the old wooden floor cool beneath my legs. My heart wouldn't stop racing, and a hundred new questions began forming in my mind.

Why was he here now? After all these years?

Why didn't Marco tell me?

And… why did I feel like his arrival had something to do with me?

I didn't realize it, but I was gripping the photo so tightly it had crumpled slightly. I quickly smoothed it out, careful not to ruin the faces in it.

I had to talk to him again.

I had to remember.

But for now, I tucked the photo into my journal and slid the drawer shut. My world—this peaceful, predictable little world—suddenly felt like it was shifting beneath my feet.

Something was coming.

And I didn't know whether to run toward it…

or away from it.