The scent of lavender always reminded Elise of the summer she fell in love. She had returned to the sleepy village of Saint Amour for the first time in ten years, her heels clicking softly on the cobbled road that led past the ancient bakery, down to the lavender fields that swayed like a purple sea in the wind. Everything was as it had been, unchanged by time except her. Elise had left Saint Amour at twenty two, chasing a photography career in Paris. She’d captured city lights and fashion shows, and love affairs that never lasted past the shutter’s click. But this summer, grief had pulled her back. Her grandmother’s cottage, now hers, waited at the edge of the fields, surrounded by a garden of wild herbs and silence. That’s where she found him again. Julien Moreau. He stood by the garden gate the second morning after her arrival, just as the sky turned a bruised shade of dawn. His eyes were the same shade of quiet blue she remembered from the summer of 2015, when they had been two dreamers, barely adults, sharing secrets in whispers beneath the stars. “Elise,” he said, and the name sounded softer in his mouth than in anyone else's. “I heard about your grandmother. I’m sorry.” She nodded. “Thank you.” A pause. “You still grow the lavender?” He smiled, lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Someone has to.” The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with everything they didn’t say. They started spending time together again not because they planned to, but because the world seemed to nudge them closer every day. He offered to help her clean out the attic of the cottage, dusty with memories. In exchange, she helped him photograph his harvests for a new online store he was starting. She teased him for finally joining the digital age; he teased her for forgetting how to ride a bike down the steep village hills. Some days they worked in silence, other days they talked about everything. He told her he’d stayed to take care of his family’s land, and that his mother was thinking of retiring in Spain. She told him about the gallery exhibit she once had in Milan, and how it didn’t feel like success. One evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Julien handed her a small jar of lavender honey. “For your tea,” he said. “And for the sweet moments. We forget them too often.” She looked up. “I still think about that summer,” she said. “I never stopped,” he replied. It wasn’t long before the past pulled them fully into the present. They kissed in the lavender fields one night, the sky awash with stars, their hands trembling like teenagers again. It wasn’t urgent it was slow, deliberate, familiar. Like something unfinished finally closing its circle. “I waited,” he said softly afterward, holding her close. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to make you choose,” he said. “You had your life ahead of you.” She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the smell of crushed herbs and time. “And now?” “I’d still never ask you to choose. But if you stayed, Elise... I would love you the rest of my life.” They fell into a rhythm that felt like a dream. Mornings were for photography, afternoons for gardening or walks by the lake. Nights were long, filled with wine and music from her grandmother’s old record player. She started sleeping with her camera beside her bed again, and he started writing poems in the back pages of his ledger books. But something lingered in the air an expiration date they weren’t speaking about. Her return had always been temporary. The gallery in Paris was expecting her in August. Her apartment lease resumed in September. Her career still called. One morning, she stood by the window, watching Julien haul lavender bundles into his truck. The way he moved, quietly determined, lit by the soft glow of dawn it made her heart ache. He looked up and caught her gaze. They smiled at each other. But something inside her trembled. The night before she left, they lay on a blanket in the field, surrounded by swaying purple and the hush of crickets. “Do you believe in second chances?” she asked. “I believe we have this moment,” he said. “And that might be enough.” “But what if” “Elise.” He turned to her, brushed her cheek with his thumb. “If you come back to me one day, I’ll be here. And if you don’t, I’ll still love you.” She closed her eyes, kissed him like it was both a goodbye and a promise. She left the next morning, her suitcase heavy, her heart heavier. Paris was loud, sharp edged, alive. But it didn’t feel the same. She went through the motions shooting campaigns, attending art openings but her thoughts often drifted back to Saint Amour. To lavender mornings and honeyed words. To a man with soil stained hands and poems on his tongue. Weeks passed. Then months. Then, one quiet evening in November, as the city turned gray with winter, she opened a package. Inside was a small jar of lavender honey. No note. Just that simple sweetness. She returned to Saint Amour the following spring. No announcement. No grand gesture. Just her and a camera, and the road that led back to the lavender fields. He was there, of course by the garden gate, leaning against the fence, looking at her like she was sunlight after rain. “You came back,” he said. “I remembered the sweet moments,” she whispered. And then she kissed him again, tasting lavender on his lips, knowing this time she was home.
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