The Lavender Heir Chapter Two

Chapter Two Back to Reality

The day began slowly. Moschops perched at the foot of the bed, rhythmically kneading the duvet, his eyes half-closed in that smug feline trance. Sirens wailed in the distance. The hum of early traffic filtered through the cracked window—urban static that somehow comforted her more than silence.

Sasha still rose early, out of habit. Even with a full month before returning to work, her internal clock refused to shift. Catherine, her boss at the museum, had insisted she take the time. A small, precise woman, Catherine always spoke like she was cataloguing rare artifacts. Her parting instructions had been clipped but sincere: Only work if you feel up to it. Not before.

Sasha shuffled to the kitchen, pulling her robe tighter around her as she passed the windowsill. A breeze slipped through the glass, carrying the scent of lavender from the small pot she’d brought back from the garden. It was thriving—impossibly so. The same cutting her father had once called “the stubborn bloom.”

The smell hit her like a whisper from the past.

Her father’s voice echoed in memory: “Lavender’s for protection, you know. Keeps the bad things out.” She used to laugh at that. He’d always been full of little sayings, half-folklore, half-nonsense. But now, with him gone, they felt like clues she had missed.

He had struggled in the last few years. The stroke had left his movements slow, his eyesight dimmed. But he never let on that he was fading. He joked he could still find his way through the house blindfolded—and somehow, he could. After her mother died, he filled his days with crossword puzzles, jazz radio, and afternoon walks. He outlived her by fifteen years, and he lived every one of them stubbornly, fully.

Sasha had promised herself she would do the same.

Even now. Even after the quiet undoing of her heart.

She drew in a sharp breath. Patrick.

She hadn’t said his name aloud in over a year, but the memory still slid in like a blade. Dark red hair. Tanned skin like soft-worn cedar. That crooked smile, those impossible dimples. Eyes that seemed to read everything she wouldn’t say.

He had lit up when he landed that contract in Vancouver. An architect’s dream. But when she told him she couldn’t leave her father—not then, not with everything happening—they both knew it was over. He said all the right things. Promised to stay in touch. And for a while, he did.

Then came the silence.

Then came the engagement photos.

Sasha had typed out “Congratulations” and posted it with a heart emoji. She had meant it—or at least, she had wanted to mean it. But part of her had stayed frozen in that moment, still waiting for something—an explanation, maybe. Or a goodbye that felt like one.

She looked down at the lavender on the windowsill, now bathed in morning light. Its scent had deepened somehow overnight, sharper and sweeter. Not just fragrant—insistent.

She reached out to touch it.

And as her fingers brushed the petals, a tiny spark of warmth pulsed through her skin. Just once. Then gone.

Sasha pulled her hand back. She stared at the plant, heart skipping a beat.

It had to be static. Or imagination. Or some residual dream clinging to the edge of waking.

Still… her father’s words echoed again: “Don’t rip it out, whatever you do.”