Three years slipped by like a quiet stream, and the healer's hut at the foot of Greenpeak Mountain had become the most renowned clinic for miles around. I was out in the herb garden, bent over pulling weeds, the spring sun warming my shoulders.
Lucien stepped out of the hut, holding a letter, his face a mix of emotions. "Lillian, this came from the Hawthorne estate."
I froze for a second, brushing the dirt off my hands before taking the letter. As I opened it, a familiar wooden hairpin slid into my palm—the one Theodore carved for me back when he was still lost in his fog.
The letter held just one line: "The willow tree you planted has grown tall and full, but there's no one left to sit in its shade."
My fingers traced the uneven scrawl, and for a moment, I saw that goofy pup squatting
