After that fifth morning, Ethan stopped pretending he was only stopping by for the mint, or the honey salve, or the balm for sore muscles he didn't really have.
He still bought things, of course. But now he stayed a little longer. Asked about the herbs. Asked about the teas. Asked about her.
He didn't push, and Hana didn't withhold. Their conversations unfolded like folded paper—delicate, thoughtful, each layer revealing just enough.
He learned that she'd been blind since she was six. That her parents had passed when she was young. That she had inherited the shop from her grandmother, who had taught her how to mix herbs by scent and texture, how to listen for the crackle of dried roots and the rustle of fresh ones.
"It's not hard," she had said one morning, handing him a warm cloth pouch of cinnamon cloves. "You just have to be willing to learn slowly. Most people don't have the patience."
Ethan had smiled then, watching her fingertips graze the edge of the wooden shelf. "I think that's something I could get better at."
The days began to form a rhythm.
Morning sun, train whistles in the distance, the soft chime of the shop door, Hana's voice greeting him like a familiar melody. Sometimes he brought her little things from the depot — a loaf of warm bread, a spool of thread, a handful of soft new fabric scraps someone had left behind.
"You don't have to bring me gifts," she'd said once, amused.
"I know," he answered, setting a roll of deep green cotton on her counter. "But I want to."
They talked while she worked, and sometimes while he did too. He'd started helping her with the odd task—carrying crates of dried plants from the back garden, fixing a squeaky hinge on the door, organizing supplies by scent labels she had written in raised ink.
He liked being there.
He liked the way time slowed in her shop.
He liked the way she laughed—quiet but unfiltered, like it surprised even her.
Sometimes, their conversations dipped into deeper waters. She asked about his family. He told her they were scattered across different cities, that he'd come to Elmsworth for a job but had stayed because the air felt easier here. He admitted, once, that he didn't really know what he was looking for.
She didn't try to answer for him. She only listened.
And that meant more than advice ever could.
One evening, as the sun sank low behind the hills and painted gold across the shop's windowpanes, Ethan found himself lingering long past his usual time. The tea she had brewed still steamed faintly in the cups between them.
"It's funny," he said softly, eyes tracing the worn grain of the table. "I never expected to find a place like this."
Hana tilted her head gently. "Most people don't."
"I think I needed it," he added, then glanced up. "You."
She didn't say anything right away. Just sat with it. Let it breathe.
"I think," she said eventually, "we all come to the right places when we're quiet enough to notice them."
Outside, the evening was settling, soft and cool. The wind stirred the chimes near the door, and somewhere down the road, someone laughed — the sound echoing faintly in the distance.
Inside the shop, the world felt still. Peaceful.
Ethan didn't
rush to leave that night.
And Hana didn't rush him.