Absolutely! Here is Chapter One of "When We Were Fireflies." I'll continue with each chapter as a rich, emotionally layered
Elmsbay, 6:37 PM – Late Spring
The salt air still smelled like childhood.
Aria Lorne stepped out of the taxi and onto the cobbled path leading to her grandmother's weathered cottage. The wind from the sea tangled in her long, dark hair, tugging at memories she hadn't invited but couldn't ignore. The sky was painted in soft watercolor hues—lavender, coral, and gold—and a quiet hush seemed to settle over the sleepy town of Elmsbay.
It had been ten years.
Ten years since she packed her bags at eighteen and left everything behind—including him.
The house hadn't changed. It still had the same white shutters, peeling blue paint, and flower beds full of stubborn daisies that refused to die, no matter how many seasons passed. And yet it felt...smaller now. Emptier.
A gentle cough behind her made Aria turn. The taxi driver was watching her kindly, as if he understood the weight she carried. She nodded, paid him, and with a quiet thank you, he drove off, leaving her in the echo of silence and surf.
As she stepped onto the porch, the wooden floor creaked under her boots. The key was still tucked under the flowerpot—of course it was. Inside, the scent of lavender sachets and lemon oil filled her senses, instantly taking her back to simpler times.
But nothing was simple anymore. Not after everything. Not after New York. Not after her grandmother's passing. And certainly not after Julian.
Aria dropped her bag by the door and exhaled slowly, almost painfully. She ran a hand along the hall table where framed photographs still stood—her as a girl with a camera too big for her hands, her grandmother waving by the shore, and… one of her and Julian. She was seventeen, barefoot, laughing as he carried her piggyback down the beach. They were inseparable then.
Until they weren't.
She turned it face down.
A knock came at the door.
For a heartbeat, Aria didn't move. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the stillness. She crossed the small living room and opened the door—and froze.
He was standing there.
Julian Hale.
Taller, older, with his once-messy hair now trimmed short, but those same storm-grey eyes. He wore a navy button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and jeans that bore the dust of the bookstore he'd never left. His jaw was slightly stubbled, and he held a small bundle of white lilies—the kind her grandmother always loved.
"I heard you were back," he said, voice low, steady, unreadable.
Aria's mouth went dry. "Julian."
He nodded once. "I… I'm sorry, Aria. About your grandmother. She meant a lot to me, too."
A pause stretched between them, weighted with the ghosts of everything unsaid.
"Thanks," she managed. "Do you… want to come in?"
He looked at her for a long moment—like he was studying someone familiar and foreign all at once.
"No," he said gently. "Not yet. I just wanted to see you. To say I'm glad you're here."
He placed the lilies in her hand and turned to leave. But halfway down the path, he paused, without looking back.
"You still carry that camera?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
But he smiled anyway, like he already knew.
Then he was gone.
And Aria was left standing in the doorway of the past, clutching flowers, heart thundering with the sound of something old beginning again.