Where the Lavender Grows

The sun dipped low over the hills of Provence, casting golden light across rows of lavender that swayed gently in the breeze. The scent was everywhere—sweet, calming, nostalgic. Elise stood at the edge of the field, her sketchbook tucked under one arm, watching the horizon as if it might answer the question she hadn’t dared ask.

Would he come?

She hadn’t seen Julien in five years. Not since the summer they’d spent painting, laughing, and falling in love among the lavender. He had left for Paris with dreams of gallery fame. She had stayed behind, rooted in the soil of her family’s farm.

But last week, a letter arrived.

“I’ll be in Provence on the 14th. If you still remember the way the lavender smelled, meet me at sunset.”

It was signed simply: Julien.

Elise had read it a dozen times, each word stirring memories she’d buried beneath layers of routine and resignation. She hadn’t replied. She hadn’t needed to. If he remembered, he’d know where to find her.

The wind picked up, rustling the tall stalks. She turned toward the path that led from the village—and there he was.

Julien.

He wore a linen shirt, sleeves rolled, and carried a satchel slung over his shoulder. His hair was longer, streaked with silver, and his eyes—those stormy gray eyes—were fixed on her.

“Elise,” he said, breathless.

She smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “You remembered.”

“I never forgot.”

They stood facing each other, the lavender between them like a sea of memory.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure either,” she replied. “But then I remembered the way you painted the sky.”

He chuckled. “Always too purple.”

“Always too bold.”

They walked slowly into the field, the scent wrapping around them like a familiar song.

“I thought about writing,” Julien said. “But I didn’t know what to say.”

“You said enough.”

“I missed you.”

Elise stopped. “Then why did you leave?”

Julien looked down. “I thought I needed the city. The critics. The chaos. I thought love would distract me.”

“And did it?”

“It haunted me.”

She touched a lavender stalk, fingers brushing the petals. “I waited.”

“I know.”

“I hated you.”

“I deserved it.”

They sat on a low stone wall, the sun now a deep orange behind the hills.

“I sold a painting last year,” Julien said. “It was called ‘Elise in Lavender.’”

She blinked. “You painted me?”

“From memory. You were laughing. The wind was in your hair. It was the only piece I couldn’t sell for months. I kept it in my studio, like a secret.”

Elise looked away. “I stopped painting.”

“Why?”

“Because everything I made looked like you.”

Julien reached into his satchel and pulled out a small canvas. It was her—standing in the field, sketchbook in hand, eyes on the horizon.

“I brought this,” he said. “In case you didn’t come.”

She took it, hands trembling. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s you.”

They sat in silence, the kind that only old lovers can share.

“I don’t know what you want,” Elise said. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

“I don’t want forgiveness,” Julien said. “I want a second chance.”

“To paint?”

“To love.”

She looked at him, eyes searching. “I’m not the same girl.”

“I’m not the same boy.”

The sun dipped below the hills, casting twilight across the field.

“I have a cottage now,” Elise said. “It’s small. Quiet.”

“I have time,” Julien said. “And brushes.”

She smiled. “And purple skies?”

He laughed. “Always.”

They stood, the lavender brushing their knees.

“Walk with me?” she asked.

“Anywhere.”

—

The cottage was nestled among olive trees, its shutters painted a soft blue. Inside, the walls were lined with Elise’s old sketches—forgotten dreams waiting to be remembered.

Julien ran a finger along one. “You drew this the day I left.”

“I was angry.”

“It’s stunning.”

She poured wine, the bottle dusty from years of waiting.

“To memory,” she said.

“To possibility,” he replied.

They clinked glasses, the sound soft and hopeful.

“I don’t know if this will work,” Elise said.

“Then let’s not try to make it perfect. Let’s just make it real.”

She nodded. “Stay the night?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

—

In the morning, the lavender glowed under the rising sun. Elise stood at the easel, brush in hand, while Julien mixed colors beside her.

“You still paint like a storm,” she said.

“And you still sketch like a whisper.”

They worked in silence, the kind that speaks volumes.

At noon, they hung their paintings side by side. Hers was soft, delicate. His was bold, wild.

“They clash,” she said.

“They dance,” he replied.

She looked at him, heart full. “What now?”

“We paint. We love. We forgive.”

She took his hand. “And we remember.”

Outside, the lavender swayed.

And where it grew, so did they.