Lavender Season

It started with the scent.

A gust of late summer wind rolled down the slopes of Hvar's hinterland and drifted into the small coastal town of Stari Grad, stirring dust, salt, and memory. But above all, it carried the unmistakable scent of lavender—thick, sharp, and nostalgic. It crept through the open shutters of Kuća Šime, the old stone house on the edge of the olive grove, and settled over Lina's skin like a question she hadn't asked in years.

She stood barefoot in the kitchen, her fingers deep in a bowl of dough. The texture was sticky—wrong. She had added too much water. Again. It was the third time this week she tried to bake her grandmother's pogača, and each time the result was some disappointing hybrid between desperation and tradition.

Her thumb absently traced a scar on her wrist, long healed but still white against her olive skin. She hadn't noticed it in years. It's funny how scents can pull you back.

The lavender meant something. Not just a season. Not just the fields above the town, swaying purple and gold under the heat. It meant the time when he came.

Marko.

She wiped her hands on the apron and didn't look at the door, though she felt it. That old house had a way of breathing when someone approached, a subtle creak in the floorboards before a knock, a shift in air pressure, like the stones themselves remembered every footstep. And they remembered his.

But it wasn't Marko at the door. Not yet.

That morning, Lina had found the photograph while sorting through her grandmother's things. She had died in March, quietly and alone, during a storm that cut the island off from the mainland. Lina hadn't made it in time. She had been in Zagreb, teaching a workshop on visual storytelling. The irony wasn't lost on her—her entire life built on helping others find their voices through art, and yet she couldn't seem to understand her own.

The photograph was old, bent at the corners. She and Marko stood in front of a lavender field in bloom, him with his arm around her, both of them sunburned and too young to know anything real. Nineteen and stupid. He had drawn something on her arm that day, a little sun with waves underneath, using the tip of a burnt matchstick. She had kept it for weeks, scrubbing around it, not wanting to lose it.

And then she had.

Everything.

She'd left for Paris that September on a scholarship. He didn't come. He said he couldn't. She hadn't asked him to.

She had told herself that was enough reason to let him go.

Later that day, the wind turned again. It brought clouds, those slow, theatrical ones that gather over the sea like spectators before a play. Lina stood on the balcony, her elbows resting on the warm limestone rail. Below, the small port began to buzz—fishermen pulling in their boats, tourists herding toward konobas, children still salty from the sea chasing dogs and pigeons in equal delight.

She sipped her coffee, the kind her grandmother made every morning, thick and bitter, no sugar. The taste was grounding. Bitter had always meant real.

And then she heard his voice.

It didn't say her name. It wasn't even addressed to her. It was him, laughing softly at something someone said near the market stall. She didn't look down. Not right away. She let the moment expand inside her like a balloon she was afraid to touch.

When she finally looked, he was already walking away, plastic bag swinging by his side. He was older. Of course. But still Marko—same stride, same unbothered way of moving like the world bent around his centre.

And then, as if some part of him still sensed her, he stopped.

Looked up.

Their eyes met, exactly five seconds too long for strangers.

They didn't speak that day. Or the next.

But on the third day, she found a jar of dried lavender tied with a string on her doorstep.

No note.

Only him would do something like that. Only he wouldn't ask if she wanted to see him.

It was strange how her hands trembled, just holding the jar. Not fear. Not desire. Something else.

Regret, maybe. Or the opposite.

They met again by the olive trees. He was pruning the ones near the stone wall that marked the edge of her property. She hadn't seen him walk up, but then Marko never made a sound when he moved. He was like the cats that haunted the alleyways of Split—silent, sleek, full of half-truths.

"You're cutting my trees," she said without warmth.

He looked at her, the small clippers still in his hand. "They're half dead. I'm saving them."

"I didn't ask you to."

"You wouldn't."

She crossed her arms, the wind catching her dress. "That's not an excuse."

"No," he said, and smiled that familiar half-smile that once drove her mad. "But it's a start."

They talked that day. Just a little. About the trees. The island. The lavender that bloomed early this year. Not about Paris. Not about the years between. Not about his wife—former—or the fact that he now lived alone in a cottage on the north side of the hill.

They left the words unspoken like carefully stacked stones.

Later that week, he invited her to help him harvest lavender.

"It's too late in the season," she said.

"It's never too late for something that wants to bloom," he replied.

She hated how easily she followed.

They worked in silence. The sound of clippers snipping stalks, the rustle of stems against burlap, the hum of bees who weren't interested in human pain. Her hands ached quickly—she hadn't done real labour in years. He didn't comment. Just handed her a bottle of water when the sun hit high.

At one point, she asked, "Do you still draw?"

He looked at her, squinting against the sun. "Not for a long time."

"You were good."

"You were better," he said.

The words hung between them like smoke.

And then she said it. "I thought you'd follow."

He didn't ask what she meant.

"I thought you'd come to Paris," she continued.

He looked down. "I almost did."

"Why didn't you?"

He shrugged, picking a sprig of lavender and rubbing it between his fingers until it bled scent. "I wasn't ready to be left twice."

She didn't respond. No answer would've made sense now. Not with ten years between then and now, and ten thousand miles of decisions and detours.

She saw him again that evening. He stood by the sea wall, tossing breadcrumbs to gulls that didn't care about poetry. She didn't approach. But he turned, as if expecting her, and nodded once before walking away.

She dreamed of him that night. Not in the way she feared. Not in the way she wanted. Just him, standing in her grandmother's kitchen, painting a sun on her arm again. Only this time, when she woke up, the scent of lavender was still clinging to her skin.

The summer rolled on, heavy with the slow ache of things unsaid. They didn't plan their meetings, but they kept happening—at the market, in the olive grove, at the quiet cove she thought no one remembered. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn't.

She learned he lost his father during the war, not in the way one loses a person, but in the way a man loses himself and forgets how to come back.

She told him about the exhibition in Berlin that nearly broke her, how people clapped for a story she didn't know she'd told.

They laughed, occasionally. They never touched.

The distance between them was measured in breaths.

One night, under a sky so thick with stars it looked like lace, he said, "Do you remember the ferry?"

She blinked. "Which one?"

"The one you missed. When you were seventeen."

She smiled. "You told them to wait."

"I threatened to jump in and swim after it."

"You were ridiculous."

"I was in love," he said, and didn't laugh.

She looked at him, really looked. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The sadness he wore like an undershirt—always hidden, always there. She wondered if he looked at her the same way.

She didn't ask.

Instead, she said, "You never told me that."

"You weren't ready to hear it."

"And now?"

He looked toward the dark hills, the wind carrying lavender down from above. "Now I don't expect anything. I just want you to know."

And she did.

The last week of August came too hot. Fires broke out in the hills, and tourists fled the island early, muttering about climate and disaster. Lina stayed. Marko stayed. They always did.

The night before she was supposed to return to Zagreb, they met again, unplanned, by the old well near the chapel. He was waiting.

"I'm not asking you to stay," he said, before she could speak.

"I'm not asking you to follow."

He stepped closer, the space between them suddenly unbearable. "But I still love you."

She looked at him then. All of him. The boy who drew suns on her arm, the man who healed trees and said little, the ghost that lived in her artwork, unnamed but always there.

She stepped forward.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

"I never stopped," she said. "But love isn't enough. Not without courage."

He nodded, once. "Then maybe we start with courage."

And for a moment, the scent of lavender was so strong it made her dizzy. Or maybe it was the feeling of possibility.

Perhaps it was the notion that some wounds never fully heal. Some are meant to remind you that pain once lived where love dared to bloom.

Lina didn't miss the ferry.

She took it the next morning, lavender in her bag, silence in her chest.

Marko didn't wave goodbye.

But she didn't need him to.

Sometimes, the absence of a gesture is more intimate than the gesture itself.

Sometimes, a scent is enough to carry you home.