The first snowfall had always brought a kind of hush to Brooklyn. A stillness. A pause. But this year, it felt like the city had turned to ice inside Camille Armand as well. Outside her window, flakes drifted lazily past the bare fire escapes and gray brick buildings. Inside, she sat cross-legged on her small sofa, a chipped porcelain mug of chamomile tea warming her hands, and a letter—an actual letter, not an email or text—resting on her lap.

She hadn’t opened it yet.

It was hand-delivered. No postmark. No address. Just her name in elegant, slanted handwriting she had once known by heart.

Camille Armand

Brooklyn, NY

Lavender wax sealed the envelope shut, embossed with the outline of a vineyard crest. She hadn’t seen that seal in over a decade. Her fingertips trembled slightly as she broke it open. The scent of crushed herbs—lavender, rosemary, thyme—rose faintly from the paper.

Inside was a single folded sheet. No date. No greeting. Just ten words:

"Come back. The lavender still grows. — Étienne"

She read it again.

And again.

A hundred memories unfurled, sudden and uninvited. The scent of wildflowers after summer rain. The way the light spilled golden through Provençal shutters. Laughter in a vineyard at dusk. His lips stained with red wine. Her name spoken softly in French.

Camille hadn’t heard from Étienne Laurent in almost ten years.

She had spent a summer in Provence during college—a photography internship that turned into the most unforgettable season of her life. Étienne had been her guide to the land, and eventually, to love. But when her mother fell ill, she left France in the middle of the night, abandoning the vineyard, the internship... and him.

She told herself she’d go back.

She never did.

The guilt had lived with her ever since, like a shadow tucked behind every gallery opening and every curated Instagram post of her photography. Her career had blossomed—freelance gigs, magazine covers, even a modest following—but something inside her had remained suspended in that lavender field where she had once whispered, I love you and never said goodbye.

She folded the letter carefully, holding it for a moment longer before placing it on the coffee table.

---

An hour later, she was still sitting there, her tea long gone cold. She looked around her apartment: the exposed brick, the camera equipment neatly stored on shelves, the framed black-and-white photos she had taken of strangers in subways and cafés. Her life was neat. Safe. Predictable.

But not whole.

She picked up her phone and called her best friend, Mia.

“Camille?” Mia answered, sounding suspicious. “Is everything okay? You never call before noon.”

“I got a letter.”

“Oh god. Who died?”

“No one... I think.”

“Okay... So?”

“It’s from Étienne.”

There was a long pause. “Étienne Étienne? The French summer boyfriend Étienne? The hot one with the wine and the accent?”

“Yes.”

“Holy. Shit.”

Camille laughed, despite herself. “Yeah.”

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘Come back. The lavender still grows.’”

Mia exhaled. “Damn. That’s good. That’s like, swoon-worthy good.”

Camille ran a hand through her dark hair, now slightly longer than it had been back then. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do. You just don’t want to admit it.”

There was another silence. Camille looked at the snow outside again, at how quiet everything was. For the first time in months, maybe years, she felt something shift. A flicker of desire. A pull.

“Book the flight,” Mia said. “Go find out if the lavender’s still blooming.”

---

Later that night, Camille sat by the window with her camera, watching the world below. She didn’t photograph the snow. Not tonight.

Instead, she opened her laptop and typed:

Destination: Marseille, France

Departure: One Way

As she hit “confirm,” a strange feeling settled over her. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t excitement, either.

It was homecoming.

Even if she didn’t know what—or who—was waiting for her.

---