Chapter 22
The winter sunlight in Prabrurgh always carried a touch of gentleness. Vanessa pushed open the glass door of the bookshop, and the wind chimes made their familiar, clear sound.
The bookstore wasn’t large. It was just about 600 square feet but filled with Modierin and Frioench books. A long oak table was placed by the window, and fresh seasonal flowers were always placed in a vase at its center.
Today, it was a bouquet of white marguerites!
“Ms. York, where should I shelve the new picture books?” asked the young staff, Mary Dubois. She was cradling a box in her arms.
“Children’s section on the shelf by the window,” Vanessa replied in Frioench, her accent now barely discernible from the locals.
This was her third year in Prabrurgh, and her bookshop had grown from being completely ignored to becoming a well-known cultural salon at Blue River. The bookshop hosted weekly book clubs and flower arranging classes.
She was organizing newly arrived books when her fingers suddenly touched a specially bound
art book. The cover displayed a watercolor painting of a river town in gray tiles, místy rain,
narrow cobbled alleys-so much like the one she once called home.
Opening to the title page, a line of small text caught her eye. “To the one who always looks
forward.”
There was no signature, but that sharp, upright handwriting was all too familiar to her.
Vanessa gently closed the art book and placed it in the display area.
Outside the window, Sierra River shimmered under the sun as a riverboat glided past. She didn’t feel a storm rise inside her anymore when something from the past crossed her path. Now, she had learned how to live in peace with her memories.
Far away in Merathea, the rainy season lingered.
Alexander stood by the window of Merathea Bookstore, watching raindrops snake their way down the glass. For the past three years, he had returned here once a month, like some quiet ritual he couldn’t break.
“Sir, we’re about to close,” the staff whispered politely.
He nodded and gave the shelves one last glance. In the corner, his eyes landed on a
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sketchbook. The title “The Language of Flowers” was handwritten in neat penell strokes.
He opened it, and the first page featured a blue Iris with a note beside it that read, “Hopeless
love.”
Page by page, he flipped through. Each flower had its own illustration with its meaning carefully annotated.
When he reached the marguerite, he froze. The handwriting was unmistakable.
“Marguerites stand for reunion. But I know some people and stories are meant to stay in the past. We all have to learn to move forward.”
Alexander clutched the sketchbook to his chest, as if holding it tighter might preserve even a faint trace of her warmth.
In Ormani, the sea breeze carried a sharp saltiness. Vanessa walked barefoot along the
shoreline, her long hair tousled by the wind. The tide lapped at her ankles, then receded again and again.
Children played nearby, building sandcastles and laughing as their voices danced with the
wind.
She paused to watch them, remembering how, years ago, Matthias had promised to take her to the ocean. And now here she was, on a foreign beach, with no regret in her heart, just a soft
kind of remembrance.
Her phone buzzed, and it was a message from the bookstore.
A customer wanted to order the river town watercolor book and asked if signed copies were available.
Vanessa replied that she would check with the author before slipping the phone back into her coat and continuing walking. The sunset stretched her shadow long across the sand, lonely butt free.
At dusk, the cemetery was silent.
Alexander knelt before Matthias’ grave. Then he placed a bouquet of white marguerites and The Language of Flowers” sketchbook beside the headstone.
“Hey, Matt. I came again,” he whispered, sitting on the ground as his fingers brushed over the cold stone. “Three years, and I still haven’t moved on.”
A breeze stirred the flower petals.
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a photograph of Vanessa. In the
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photo, she was organizing books by the window of her bookstore on Prabrurgh’s Blue River, sunlight gilding the edges of her face.
He said, “She’s doing well… better than she ever did with me.”
Then, he tucked the photo beside the flowers.
As the sky darkened, Alexander’s figure hunched before the grave. He was no longer the ruthless man who once ruled the business world, but just a lost child.
“I regret it… I regret it so much…” His whispers disappeared with the evening wind, with no one to respond.
Back in Prabrurgh, the lights flickered on across the Sierra River as night fell. Vanessa stood on the second floor of the bookstore, gazing out at the glowing skyline.
She quietly closed the book in her hands, a soft smile tugging on her lips. The pain of the past had melted into part of her story, and it no longer hurt, nor did it define her.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in Merathea, Alexander stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. He was holding a ring he had never given, looking up at the same moon.
