Ethan started passing by the shop every morning. Not on purpose, at first.At least that's what he told himself.
The path to the train depot curved naturally past Hana's small storefront. It was a quieter way, slightly longer than the main road, but something about it drew him in. Maybe it was the wind chimes, or the lavender that hung near the door. Maybe it was her voice. Maybe it was just the way the place made the morning feel less gray.
The first day, he bought a small cloth pouch filled with dried mint.
"Good for focus," Hana said as she handed it to him. "Tuck it in your jacket pocket. The scent should stay with you through the morning."
The next day, he returned for a honey salve. "Dry hands," he explained awkwardly, even though they weren't.
She handed him the little tin, her fingers brushing his lightly. "Be careful not to use too much. A little warmth brings it to life."
He lingered, but not long. A few words. A glance around the room. Then off to work.
Each morning followed a similar rhythm. A soft "good morning," a simple purchase, a short conversation that never felt forced. Sometimes they spoke about the weather. Sometimes she offered small observations—how the scent of the trees had changed overnight, how the birds sounded sleepier than usual. He never questioned how she knew.
By the fourth day, Ethan had started thinking about what he would say before he arrived. Whether his shirt looked alright. Whether his breath smelled like coffee.
That morning, he asked her what time the shop usually closed.
"Dusk," she said gently. "When the light leaves the windows."
He smiled, unsure why that answer settled in his chest the way it did.
On the fifth day, he arrived earlier than usual. A light drizzle had followed him from the edge of the village, mist clinging to his jacket and curls. The shop door was already open, as if it had been waiting.
Hana stood behind the counter, arranging small jars into a neat row by touch alone. Ethan watched her silently for a moment. Her hands moved with delicate certainty, fingers trailing the wood until they landed on the next container.
Something caught in him.
She hadn't once looked down at what she was doing.
When she turned toward him, her gaze didn't quite meet his—but her smile was as steady as ever.
"You're early," she said softly.
"Yeah," he replied, clearing his throat. "Didn't sleep much."
She nodded. "Some mornings begin heavier than others."
He didn't answer right away. His eyes followed her movements again—gentle, precise, guided not by sight, but by memory. He thought back to the way she had handed him the mint pouch. The way she always tilted her head slightly when he spoke. The way her eyes never quite landed on him, but never felt absent either.
He finally asked, carefully, "Do you… see me?"
She paused. Not startled. Not uncomfortable. Just still.
"No," she said softly. "Not with my eyes."
There was no shame in her voice, no apology. Just truth, like the weather.
"I've been blind since I was a child," she continued, gently closing the last jar. "It's usually not the first thing people notice."
Ethan blinked, his throat tightening with something he couldn't name. "I didn't… I mean, I had no idea."
"That's alright," Hana replied, brushing her hair behind one ear. "You see me now."
He couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped him—soft and full of something else beneath it. "Yeah," he said, almost to himself. "I guess I do."
The rain tapped lightly on the window behind them. The scent of rosemary and old wood filled the room. In that moment, the little shop felt like a pause in the day, a pocket of stillness in a world that never stopped rushing.
He looked at her again—really looked—and realized something:
She moved through the world with more clarity than most people ever found with perfect vision.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel the need to rush off to work.