The morning air was warm, touched by the scent of freshly baked bread drifting from somewhere down the street. Mira hadn't planned to leave the house, but Zuri had shown up unannounced, leaning against the porch railing with two cups of iced coffee and a grin that dared her to say no.
"Come on," Zuri said, handing her one. "If I let you hole up here all day, you'll turn into one of those hermits who only talks to their plants."
"I don't own plants," Mira replied, pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
"Exactly. That's the first sign."
They walked toward town, the streets livelier than Mira expected for a Sunday morning. Churchgoers clustered on corners, laughing softly in their pressed clothes. Kids zipped by on bikes, their tires leaving thin lines of dust on the road.
Valemont felt… different today. Less like the quiet town she'd been tiptoeing through all week, and more like it had a pulse.
---
Their first stop was Zuri's mom's flower shop, a narrow storefront that looked like it had bloomed right out of the sidewalk. Buckets of peonies lined the window, trailing ivy hung from the ceiling, and a faint hum of jazz played from somewhere in the back. Zuri's mom — petite, brisk, and somehow always multitasking — was trimming sunflowers when they walked in.
"Mira! You're back for good this time?" she asked, arching a brow, her scissors never stopping.
Mira offered a polite smile. "For now. Helping with the bridge project."
"That old thing? Finally!" Zuri's mom let out a quick laugh. "Maybe you can stop the council from talking it to death for once. Every spring, they argue about budgets while that bridge tries to collapse under the farmers."
Zuri rolled her eyes. "Don't scare her off, Mom. She already has Darian to deal with. She doesn't need council drama too."
Her mom smirked knowingly but didn't add more, sliding a wrapped bouquet across the counter toward a waiting customer.
Mira helped Zuri carry buckets of water to the front, her fingers stinging from the cold by the time they finished. The air in the shop smelled of roses and damp earth, clinging faintly to her sweater as they stepped back outside.
"Your mom always this… energetic?" Mira asked, flexing her hands.
Zuri grinned. "She sleeps about four hours a night. I think caffeine is part of her DNA."
---
By midday, they were back on the main road, weaving toward the market square.
The square was alive. Stalls lined the cobblestone, displaying everything from jars of honey to handwoven baskets. The smell of fried dough drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sound of someone strumming a guitar near the fountain.
Mira slowed as she took it in. She remembered this place from her childhood — chasing Zuri between stalls, saving coins for sweet buns, listening to her father barter for lumber at the carpenter's stand. But the colors felt brighter now, the sounds sharper, as if she were noticing it all for the first time.
"Hey, pecans?" Zuri gestured toward a vendor shaking sugar over a warm batch.
Before Mira could respond, the vendor — a plump man with a booming voice — spotted them. "For you two? On the house!" he declared, scooping some into a paper cone. "Architect of the new bridge, right? Heard about you already. Mira Ellis!"
Mira blinked. "Word travels fast here."
"Faster than the river in flood season," the man chuckled. "You build us a bridge that won't sink every other year, I'll name a candy after you. The 'Ellis Crunch.'"
Zuri snorted. "You have to take that deal. It's basically immortality."
---
As they moved along, a teenager was attempting to juggle apples outside the bakery. He caught two, dropped the third, then bowed dramatically as though it were part of the act. The small crowd clapped anyway.
Mira found herself smiling, her shoulders loosening.
And then, as if summoned, came the sharp, measured voice of Mrs. Hollis — the town's unofficial mayor and full-time enforcer of opinions. She approached with her ever-present basket of rolls, her silver hair tucked neatly beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
"Mira Ellis, as I live and breathe," Mrs. Hollis said, eyeing her like a jeweler inspecting a rare stone. "I hear you're designing our new bridge."
"I am," Mira replied carefully.
"Good. The last one barely survived the spring floods. Don't let those council fools skimp on quality — you know how they are."
"I'll do my best," Mira said, forcing a polite smile.
Mrs. Hollis gave a curt nod. "See that you do. We don't need another 'cost-effective' disaster. And tell that builder boy not to cut corners, either. Handsome or not, I'll have his head if the thing wobbles."
With that, she swept off, leaving behind a faint trail of flour and disapproval.
Zuri was grinning ear to ear. "She's been running this town on passive-aggressive comments for twenty years."
"Noted," Mira muttered.
---
They ended up by the fountain, sipping lemonade sold by two kids who were probably charging double the usual price just because it was Sunday. Mira didn't mind. The air was warm, the sound of the guitar player lazily drifting through the square, and for the first time since she'd come back, she didn't feel like she was on the outside looking in.
Valemont felt… smaller, somehow. But bigger, too.
And maybe, just maybe, she could fit inside it again.
---
That evening, back at her mother's porch, Mira sat with a cup of tea, the distant hum of the market still echoing in her ears.
Her mom stepped outside, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She studied Mira for a moment before sitting beside her on the step.
"You're smiling," her mom said softly, as though pointing out something rare.
Mira blinked, touching the corner of her mouth without realizing it. "Guess I am."
"Feels good, doesn't it?"
Mira looked out at the dusky street, the faint scent of jasmine drifting from the garden. "Yeah," she admitted quietly. "It does."
Her mom rested a hand over hers, warm and steady. "Whatever weight you're carrying, it doesn't have to feel so heavy here. Let this place hold some of it for you."
For a moment, Mira just breathed, the air cool and still.
And for the first time in months, the quiet felt like comfort — not emptiness.