The storm had left the world blanketed in white, a hush spread across Elden Bridge like a forgotten lullaby. Violet stood on the back porch of The Hushed Hour with a steaming cup of tea, watching as her breath rose in clouds and the last flakes settled on the wrought iron fence that separated her shop from the orchard.
The orchard—the root of the feud, the scar her family carried through generations.
It was too early for blossoms, but she still imagined the trees whispering. They'd seen too much. A century of love, loss, arguments, reconciliation, and now silence.
Behind her, the door creaked open. Nora stepped out, bundled in a faux-fur coat, eyes darting to the trees.
"I don't get why you stay," she said. "This place isn't just haunted by memories, it's shackled by them."
Violet took a sip of tea. "Some ghosts are worth keeping around."
Nora rolled her eyes. "Don't get poetic on me. Especially not about that Carlisle boy."
"He's not a boy. And he wasn't rude. He was… different."
"Different how?"
Violet turned to face her cousin. "Like he's not interested in fighting a war he didn't start. Like he's actually trying to see past our names."
Nora sighed and pulled her coat tighter. "You always did like the tragic types."
"I liked the true ones."
The conversation ended there. But the tension lingered, seeping into Violet's bones like the cold.
---
Later that afternoon, the door to the bookstore opened with a familiar jingle. Violet looked up and found herself staring at Adam again, his hair still tousled from the wind, camera slung over his shoulder, and snow clinging to his coat.
"I come bearing peace offerings," he said, holding up a brown paper bag. "Scones. From Gretel's."
She raised an eyebrow. "You bribing the bookseller?"
"Trying to earn a truce," he said, setting the bag on the counter. "And maybe a few more minutes of your time."
She relented with a small smile and pulled out two plates. As they sat together in the shop's reading corner, Adam leaned back against a bookshelf and let his gaze roam the rows of novels, poetry, and memoirs.
"This place is magic," he said. "It's like it's waiting to be part of someone's story."
Violet looked at him sideways. "Aren't you worried about what your family will say? About you being here?"
Adam shrugged. "I'm used to disappointing them. My grandfather stopped talking to my dad years ago. I'm not sure they'd even notice I was gone."
There was sadness in his voice, but not bitterness. It made Violet ache in a way she hadn't expected.
"I know what that's like," she said. "My mother thinks I should've left Elden Bridge the second I turned eighteen. She says I'm wasting my life babysitting dead trees and unread books."
"But you stayed."
"I stayed."
They sat in silence again, the kind that felt companionable. The kind that said, I see you.
---
A sharp knock broke the calm.
This time it wasn't Nora. It was Elijah Morgan—Violet's older brother. Tall, broad-shouldered, and constantly wearing an expression like the world owed him answers.
His eyes landed on Adam and narrowed.
"What's he doing here?"
Violet stood up, her jaw tightening. "He brought scones. And peace."
"This isn't funny, Vi." Elijah stepped into the shop like he owned it. "You think Granddad would've let a Carlisle sit in this corner?"
Adam stood slowly, respectful but firm. "I'm not here to stir trouble."
"You being here is trouble." Elijah turned to his sister. "You can't let this continue. You know what people will say."
"Let them talk."
"You don't get it," Elijah snapped. "You're not just you anymore. You're a Morgan. That name means something."
"To who?" Violet asked, her voice rising. "To a town that holds onto grudges like heirlooms? To a family that confuses pride with punishment?"
Adam stepped back. "Maybe I should go."
"No," Violet said, grabbing his wrist. "Stay. This is our store. Not theirs."
Elijah looked at their hands. "This is a mistake, Violet. And it's going to blow up in your face."
He left without another word.
Violet exhaled shakily. Adam still hadn't pulled away from her grip.
"You sure about this?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "Let them talk. I'm tired of letting other people write my story."
Adam smiled, soft and sure. "Then let's write a new one. Together."
Outside, the orchard stood silent, snow-covered, waiting for spring.
But inside, something had already begun to bloom.