It was strange, how a place could exhale. The old cottage she found on the edge of Marigold Valley seemed to do just that — like it had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to come along and finally give it a purpose again.

The listing had been unassuming. Two-bedroom rental. Garden. Quiet. Pet-friendly. Just an hour out of the city, nestled between winding roads and hills too small to be mountains but too proud to be called hills. She hadn’t been looking for a fresh start, not really. But one night, while lying awake at 3 a.m. in Rachel’s guest room, she’d seen the photo — white shutters, ivy creeping up one side, a little front porch with chipped railings — and something in her chest stirred.

By the end of the week, she was signing the lease.

The first morning there, she stood barefoot on the porch, coffee in hand, watching fog roll off the fields like it had somewhere to be. Luna explored the overgrown yard with the kind of joy only dogs seemed capable of — sniffing at dandelions and chasing bees with enthusiasm that made Elena laugh, really laugh, for the first time in weeks.

The cottage smelled like cedar and time. There were creaking floorboards, a fireplace that hadn’t been used in years, and a garden out back so wild it looked more like a meadow. But it was hers now. Hers and Luna’s.

She unpacked slowly, deliberately. Each box was a decision. What to keep. What to let go. She left behind the bedsheets they used to share, the wine glasses bought on a romantic trip to Napa, and all but one photograph. That one was a candid of just her, laughing mid-sentence, wind in her hair. Rachel had taken it. Marcus wasn’t even in the frame.

It took time to adjust to the silence. At first, it felt like loneliness — until she realized it was peace.

She explored the small town bit by bit, starting with the farmer’s market held every Saturday in the town square. Locals sold homemade honey, secondhand books, candles that smelled like bergamot and pine. Everyone smiled at her. No one asked who she was running from.

It was on her third visit that she met Rowan.

She had just bought a jar of plum preserves when Luna, in her usual chaos, tugged hard on the leash and lunged toward a stand selling baked goods — knocking over a wooden display of baguettes.

“Oh my God,” Elena gasped, rushing forward. “I’m so sorry—Luna, sit!”

The man behind the booth laughed — a warm, easy sound that didn’t feel mocking. He crouched to pick up the fallen bread, unfazed. “Looks like someone takes carb-loading very seriously.”

He looked up at her with a crooked smile, a light dusting of flour on his forearm and apron. His eyes were a gray-blue, stormy but kind. His hair was messy in a way that didn’t seem styled, just… lived-in.

“She’s usually better behaved,” Elena said, trying to wrangle the leash and her pride.

He held up one of the less-damaged baguettes. “Let’s call it even. You take this, and I get the honor of meeting the town’s most enthusiastic dog.”

She laughed despite herself, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Deal.”

“I’m Rowan, by the way,” he said, holding out a flour-smudged hand.

“Elena. And this is Luna — carb addict, amateur tornado.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’ve dealt with worse. Had a raccoon steal a croissant once. Vicious little guy.”

That was the beginning.

Each week after, she’d visit the market. Rowan’s booth became a stop she always made — even if she didn’t need bread. Sometimes he’d have her favorite cinnamon knots set aside. Other times, he’d hand her a sample of something new he was working on.

They talked more. Nothing heavy. He told her about his move from the city, how he’d left a job in finance to open a bakery after losing his mother — how grief made him reassess everything. She told him about the cottage, the garden she had no idea how to tame, and Luna’s vendetta against squirrels.

She didn’t tell him about Marcus. Not yet. But there was no rush. With Rowan, everything felt slow in the right way. No chasing. No proving. Just presence.

One Tuesday morning, she found a small brown bag on her porch, still warm from the oven. Inside were two lemon scones and a handwritten note: For your first frost. The trick is to enjoy them with your fingers wrapped around something warm.

She hadn’t told him she hated the cold. Somehow, he just knew.

Elena started keeping fresh flowers in the kitchen. She wore her favorite perfume again. Took long walks without needing a destination. Her garden began to change, too — not perfect, but tended. Wildflowers bloomed in surprising corners. She liked that. That things could grow messy and beautiful at the same time.

Then one night, it rained.

Harder than usual, a proper spring storm. Thunder cracked above the valley, and Luna whined from under the bed. Elena stood by the window, watching the sky tear open, lightning illuminating the yard like a spotlight.

A knock came at the door.

She opened it to find Rowan, drenched but smiling. “Power’s out down the road. Thought I’d check to see if you had candles. Or company.”

She blinked, surprised. “I have both.”

He stepped inside, shaking out his jacket. “Good. Because I brought soup.”

She led him into the kitchen. They sat cross-legged on the floor, backs to the cabinets, with mismatched bowls and a single candle flickering between them. They talked about nothing and everything. She told him about her favorite childhood book. He confessed to singing in the shower.

Then came the silence — the good kind. The kind that holds possibility.

Rowan looked at her, really looked, and said, “You seem lighter lately.”

She blinked. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Like someone who stopped carrying something heavy.”

Elena held his gaze. The rain softened against the roof, a lullaby now. “Maybe I have.”

And then, with no grand gesture, no dramatic pull, he leaned in.

It was a soft kiss. Careful. New. But it landed somewhere deep inside her, somewhere that hadn’t been touched in a long time. Not physically — spiritually. As if someone was kissing her hope back to life.

When they pulled apart, she smiled — small and unsure, but real.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” she whispered.

“That’s okay,” he replied, brushing a wet strand from her cheek. “We’ve got time.”