The town of Ashbury hadn’t changed much not in the way Christopher Hale remembered it. The same crooked white fences lined the winding country roads, the same ancient oak trees leaned toward the sky like tired sentinels, and the same stillness clung to the air as if the town held its breath. But he had changed. In ways, he couldn’t yet explain, in ways that couldn’t be seen in the reflection of a mirror. He felt it in the weight of every step he took across the gravel path leading up to the inn, in the way his heart thudded heavier with each breath of familiar spring air.

He hadn’t set foot in Ashbury in seven years.

The town looked like something pulled from an old photograph slightly faded but rich with sentiment. It was late afternoon, and the sky was brushed with soft gray clouds, casting long shadows stretching toward him like memories too stubborn to let go. He paused at the town square, eyes scanning the shops he once knew like the back of his hand. The florist still had sunflowers out front. The bakery still displayed crooked curtains in the windows, swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of cinnamon and fresh bread wafted through the air, tugging at his senses.

And there it was The Lavender Quill. Her bookstore. Still nestled between the bakery and the florist, just like always.

His feet slowed of their own accord. The glass windows were clean and polished, and the inside was warmly lit with soft yellow bulbs and neat displays. A vase of fresh lavender sat on the windowsill, as it always had. Her touch lingered in every detail. Catherine.