Sunday came with a soft drizzle, the kind that makes the world feel hushed, as if holding its breath.
Flora stood beneath the willow tree by the lake, just as she always did. She had brought no sketchbook today—just a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a heart that beat too loudly in the silence.
The willow branches swayed like old friends greeting her, and the lake shimmered under a sky the color of pearl. She waited, not out of hope, but habit. Her fingers brushed the edge of her dress. A petal from the camellias in the shop still clung to her hem.
When footsteps finally crunched over the wet earth behind her, she didn't turn. She knew it was him.
Callen stood beside her without a word. His coat was damp. In his hand, the bouquet she had made—worn and weathered, but still intact.
"I was afraid you wouldn't come," Flora said softly.
"I almost didn't," he admitted. "I thought maybe… it was better to leave the past where it sleeps."
Flora looked out over the lake. "Some things don't sleep. They bloom again when you least expect it."
A long silence stretched between them. Then Callen spoke, his voice low.
"I'm leaving again. Not because I want to. Because I have to. My mother's sick, and my family needs me back home."
Flora nodded, though her chest tightened.
"I came here hoping to find something," he continued. "But I realized… it's not something I can hold onto. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
The drizzle became rain. Flora didn't flinch.
She turned to him at last, green eyes meeting his grey. "Then let this be enough. One afternoon. One memory that doesn't hurt."
Callen gently took her hand. They stood beneath the willow in the rain, not kissing, not promising—just sharing a moment that would remain untouched by time.
Before he left, he placed the bouquet on the bench by the tree.
"For the girl who made flowers speak," he said, voice cracking.
And then he walked away.
Flora stayed until the rain washed the petals clean. And though he left again, this time—he said goodbye.