First message
The shop smells like wet bark and something darker underneath — spores, maybe. Earthy, rich, alive in a way I’ve never quite known how to be. I pause just inside the door, letting the scent cling to my coat like judgment. It’s dim, cluttered, cluttered with intention — jars on shelves, dried caps hanging like charms, drawings on the walls that don’t belong to Jules. They belong to them. My children. Our children. The ones I haven’t seen in seventeen years. Jules is behind the counter, apron dusted with soil, a streak of something dark on his forearm. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. That makes it worse. I smooth the front of my blazer, try not to look at the moss terrarium glowing in the window like a shrine.I want to see them, I say, and the words land heavier than I expect. Not because I mean them — not in the way he thinks — but because even now, I know I don’t get to ask. I say it like I’m asking for coffee, like it’s a meeting to be scheduled.