The train slid into the station with a low groan, its wheels screeching like it hated stopping in small towns. Julian Rivers stood from his seat and reached for the leather duffel overhead — the same one he'd used to leave this place twelve years ago.
Willowmere, Georgia.
Population: 2,413.
Humidity: unbearable.
Memories: too many.
He stepped off the train and was immediately swallowed by the heat — thick, sticky, and perfumed with honeysuckle and nostalgia. The kind of heat that clung to your collar and made you remember things you tried hard to forget.
A boy with a crooked grin once kissed a girl under an old oak tree here. That same boy ran from everything. Now, he was back. And the tree — and the girl — were still here.
Julian dragged his bag through the cracked pavement of Main Street, past the diner that still served peach pie on Thursdays, past the hardware store that hadn’t changed its window display in twenty years. The town looked stuck in time, but he didn’t.
His beard was thicker now, his shoulders broader, his eyes lined with sleepless nights and city deadlines. He’d made partner at one of Chicago’s top architecture firms — and yet here he was, sweating in a linen shirt and about to step into a house he’d vowed never to see again.
Rivers Estate.
The iron gate creaked as he opened it, rusted and stubborn. The house loomed like something out of a Faulkner novel — wraparound porch, chipped shutters, and a yard that looked like it had given up. Vines strangled the old columns, and the once-famous gardens were overrun with wildflowers and thorns.
Julian paused at the steps. The ghost of his grandfather's voice echoed in his mind:
"The house will always be yours when you're ready to come home."
Too bad he didn’t believe in ghosts.
Inside, the air was stale and quiet. Dust motes floated like tiny spirits in the sunbeams slanting through broken blinds. A few cobwebs. A whiskey bottle — half full — still sat on the mantle. His grandfather’s chair, facing the window, remained exactly where it had been the last time Julian saw him.
The will was clear: he inherited everything. The house. The land. The mess.
His plan? Fix it, flip it, and leave.
Until he opened the back door and stepped into the overgrown garden… and saw her.
Claire Whitmore stood ankle-deep in clover, her back to him, her hair caught in the breeze like a flame. She wore gardening gloves and a blue cotton dress smudged with soil. A wide-brimmed straw hat shaded her face, but Julian would have recognized her anywhere.
She turned slowly, eyes narrowing as they met his.
"Julian Rivers," she said, no warmth in her voice, just quiet surprise. "Well. Look what the storm dragged in."
He blinked, stunned by the sudden rush of memory. Claire. The girl he used to love. The one he never stopped thinking about.
He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure.
"I didn’t know you still worked here."
"I don’t," she said, pulling off one glove. "But your lawyer hired me to assess the garden. Said the new owner wanted it restored."
"That owner’s me," he said softly.
She gave him a long, unreadable look.
"Then I guess we’re working together."
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