At forty-three, Lena arrived in the town of Thistlebrook with two suitcases, a car that rattled like it had secrets, and the raw ache of starting over.
She had left behind a failed business, a failed marriage, and a voicemail from her adult son she couldn’t bring herself to delete. “I just don’t know who you are anymore, Mom,” he had said. Neither did she.
The house she rented was small and slightly crooked, with lavender growing wild in the front yard like it had never heard of giving up. It smelled like old books and hope. She painted the walls herself — pale yellow, like warmth pretending it never left.
The first weeks were hard. Mornings were heavy with silence, coffee tasted like memory, and she flinched at the sound of her own laughter when it came, thin and unfamiliar.
She got a job at the local florist. Nothing fancy — arranging daisies, sweeping petals off the floor, breathing in things that bloomed without needing permission.
One evening, she found herself at the town’s open mic night. She hadn’t touched her guitar in years, not since the cafe she owned went under and took her songs with it. But her hands remembered. So did her voice.
She played something simple. Honest. The room was quiet when she finished. Not stunned — just still, like it was listening with its whole heart.
A woman approached her afterward, smiling. “You’ve got something,” she said. “Keep going.”
Lena walked home under the soft hush of stars, the night cool against her skin. She didn’t know if she believed in fate or second chances. But lavender still bloomed outside her door, and for once, she didn’t feel like she had to wait for spring.