Beneath the Lavender Sky
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 3,731
The lavender-scented bathwater rippled around Rosa’s body, the steam curling into the air like restless spirits. The heat seeped into her skin, enticing her stiff, aching joints into a reluctant truce. For a moment, the inflammation and agony in her knees retreated to the edges of her consciousness, leaving her with a fleeting illusion of peace. She leaned back against the cool porcelain, her eyes closing, but the silence was not the remission she’d hoped for.
Keisha’s voice replayed in her mind, cutting through the haze like a jagged blade.
“You’re so dramatic, Rosa,” her sister had said, her attention fixed on her phone as she casually scrolled through Instagram. “We’re all tired. You just have to push through it.”
Rosa had smiled then, tight-lipped and brittle, as if her teeth were the only thing holding back the flood of anger and frustration threatening to spill out. Push through it? she’d thought. What did Keisha know about exhaustion that went bone-deep, about pain so penetrating it rewrote the very language of your body?
She thought of the mornings she’d spent staring at her coffee maker, her fingers trembling, unable to grip the handle of her favorite mug without feeling like her joints were filled with broken glass. She thought of the nights when even the weight of a blanket was too much to bear, her body screaming in protest as though it were at war with itself.
But what was the point of saying any of that? Arguing with Keisha would have been like shouting into a void. No one believed pain they couldn’t see.
Her fingers grazed the water’s surface, leaving trails in the faint purple hue. The scent was supposed to be calming, restorative even, but it felt sickening now, almost oppressive. Keisha’s words clung to her, heavier than the water she soaked in.
Rosa’s eyes opened, and she stared at the bathroom ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster. She wondered how many more cracks her spirit could endure before it shattered completely.
The bathwater had cooled by the time she climbed out, her knees protesting even the small act of standing. She reached for the towel and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face looked older than her years, the weariness etched into every line and shadow. But beneath the fatigue, there was something else—something defiant.
She tightened the towel around herself and stared at her reflection as if daring it to speak. “Push through it?” she whispered, the words bitter on her tongue. Her jaw set, her fingers gripping the edge of the sink until her knuckles turned white.
“I already have,” she said, her voice steady now.
And she would. Again and again. Even if no one believed her pain, even if no one saw her pain, even if no one understood her pain.
***
The cabin sat deep in a forgotten stretch of forest, nestled among towering pines that swayed and whispered secrets to the wind. Rosa had found it in an online listing during one of her sleepless nights, scrolling with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks. The pictures had shown a modest, weathered retreat, promising isolation, peace, and a kind of calm she hadn’t felt in years. She booked it in a haze of desperation, needing a place to escape the pitying looks and unsolicited advice from people who thought they understood her pain.She packed hastily: heating pads, an assortment of pills, and an old used paperback novel she knew she wouldn’t open. The drive was long, the road winding narrower with each mile until it became a dirt path overgrown with weeds. The cabin appeared suddenly, like something conjured out of the dense woods, its sloped roof blanketed with moss and its porch sagging slightly under the weight of time.
The first two days were uneventful. Rosa spent them wrapped in blankets, staring at the ceiling as the light shifted through the trees outside. She drifted between restless naps and half-eaten meals, her body aching no matter how she positioned herself. The only sounds were the occasional groan of the old cabin settling and the distant rustle of wind through the pines.
But by the third night, the quiet turned on her. It wasn’t peaceful anymore—it was suffocating. The silence pressed against her chest like a weighted blanket, amplifying the sharpness of her thoughts and the constant throb in her joints. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness, her hands clenching and unclenching out of habit.
Then came the knock.
It wasn’t loud, but in the stillness, it echoed like a thunderclap. Rosa froze, her pulse quickening. She hadn’t seen another soul since arriving—who could possibly be out here?
The knock came again, patient but insistent.
She forced herself to her feet, every movement slow and deliberate as her joints protested. Her hand hesitated on the doorknob before she finally opened it.
A man stood on the porch, his figure backlit by the warm glow of a lantern he held in one hand. His face was rugged, etched with lines that hinted at years spent in the outdoors. A patchy beard framed his mouth, and his eyes, dark and steady, studied her with quiet concern.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, almost apologetic. “I’m Jeb. Live just down the road. Saw your car and figured I’d check in. Make sure you’re okay out here.”
Rosa blinked, caught off guard by his presence and the frankness in his tone. “I’m fine,” she said, the words coming out more defensive than she intended.
Jeb’s gaze lingered, not prying but steady, like he was looking past her words to the truth underneath. “Fine doesn’t usually look like you’re about to fall over,” he said.
A dry laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. “You always this blunt?”
“Only when it’s true.”
She didn’t know why, but something in his tone softened her defenses. Against her better judgment, she stepped aside, the door creaking as it opened wider. “Come in, then.”
Jeb nodded once, stepping into the small cabin with the ease of someone who didn’t need an invitation. His lantern cast a warm, golden glow across the room, chasing away the shadows that had felt so oppressive just moments before.
He didn’t stay long that night, just long enough to share a few polite words and leave a small bundle of firewood by the stove. But as the door closed behind him, Rosa realized the cabin didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore. For the first time in days, the solitude loosened its grip, leaving her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time: the faintest flicker of connection.
***
Jeb’s visits became a part of Rosa’s routine, though she never invited him and he never stayed long. He would knock on the door or appear unannounced while she was chopping vegetables or sitting on the porch, his lantern casting warm light over the quiet space. He didn’t ask questions about her life before the cabin or offer empty clichés about her condition. Instead, he brought something Rosa hadn’t realized she needed: presence without pity.
At first, his lessons felt random. He showed her how to stack firewood so it dried properly and wouldn’t collapse when you needed it most. Another evening, he sat beside her and pointed to the sky, tracing constellations with a knobbly finger and telling stories about their names. “That one’s Orion,” he said, his voice low. “But some call it the Hunter. Depends on what you believe.”
“Why does it matter?” Rosa asked.
Jeb shrugged. “Because what you believe changes what you see.”
She didn’t press him for more. She was learning to let his words settle on their own, like snow on an untouched field.
On the fourth night, he arrived with a steaming mug in hand, the earthy scent wafting toward her before he even reached the porch.
“Try this,” he said, holding it out.
“What’s in it?” Rosa asked, eyeing the cup with suspicion.
“Just herbs,” he said, his tone casual. “Nothing fancy.”
Her instinct was to refuse, but the ache in her knees had been particularly brutal that day, and the thought of relief—even temporary—was tempting. She accepted the mug, its warmth spreading through her fingers.
The first sip was sharp, almost bitter, with an earthy base and a floral undertone that lingered on her tongue. She grimaced but kept drinking, the heat soothing her throat as the taste grew less offensive with each swallow.
“Not bad,” she muttered, handing him the empty mug.
Jeb smirked. “Told you.”
By the time she settled into bed that night, something strange began to happen. The familiar ache in her joints subside away, like a tide receding from the shore. Her body felt lighter, her limbs fluid and free of the usual stiffness.
She stretched her legs experimentally, waiting for the crackle of resistance that never came. For the first time in weeks, Rosa’s body felt... hers.
When sleep took her, it came swiftly and deeply, pulling her into a dark, dreamless void that felt as safe as it was unfamiliar. She didn’t toss or turn. She didn’t wake to shooting pain or the throb of aching joints.
In the morning, Rosa opened her eyes to the sun streaming through the cabin windows, her body soft and pliable, the chains of pain seemingly gone. It was the kind of peace she hadn’t known in years.
Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice whispered: What’s the cost?
Tears spilled down her cheeks as she sat on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the absence of agony. She flexed her hands over and over, testing the miracle, half-convinced it was a cruel trick. But the relief was real.
That afternoon, Jeb found her sitting on the porch, her eyes fixed on her hands as if they were alien objects.
“Tea worked, huh?” he said, his gruff voice breaking the quiet as he leaned casually on the railing.
She looked up at him, her lips trembling. “What is it?” she asked, her voice raw, still shaky from the flood of emotions.
Jeb shrugged, his expression calm. “Something special that grows nearby,” he said.
His vague answer tearing at her, but Rosa didn’t press. She was too afraid of disrupting whatever delicate balance had granted her this remission.
By the second day, her body felt almost unrecognizable. She moved with an ease she hadn’t known in years, walking to the creek behind the cabin without once having to stop and stretch her aching joints. By the third day, she felt invincible. The air smelled sweeter, her lungs filled deeper, and every inch of her felt alive, humming with vitality.
By the sixth day, Rosa was doing things she hadn’t dared to dream of. She hiked the narrow trails through the woods, paths she’d avoided for years because the pain had always been too much. She danced to the rustling melody of the wind in the trees, her laughter ringing out like she’d been freed from a prison she hadn’t realized she’d been in.
But as her body grew stronger, her mind began to deteriorate.
The lavender field started haunting her dreams. Every night, she saw herself standing at its center, the blooms glowing with an eerie violet light under a swollen, unnatural moon. The air in her dreams was heavy, almost stifling, the floral scent clinging to her skin like a warning.
And then there was the reflection.
In the field’s dew-covered petals, she would catch glimpses of herself—only it wasn’t her. The woman staring back had her face but not her eyes. Her eyes were hollow, dark as the space between stars, and her expression was empty, void of anything resembling emotion or humanity.
In the dreams, she would scream, but the sound never came. The reflection only stared, its lips curling into a smile that wasn’t hers, wasn’t real. She’d wake drenched in sweat, her hands clutching at her throat as though the dream-self might reach through and pull her under.
By the seventh morning, Rosa sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, the once-blissful silence in her body now feeling sinister. The lavender had taken her pain, yes, but what else had it taken? And what would it demand next?
***
The seventh night, Rosa couldn’t wait any longer. She found Jeb by the edge of the lavender field, his lantern casting long, flickering shadows over the eerie blooms. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his expression unreadable in the dim light.“What’s in the tea?” she demanded, holding up the chipped mug he’d handed her days ago. Her fingers trembled, but whether from anger or fear, she couldn’t tell.
Jeb studied her for a moment, his face darkening. He set the lantern down carefully, its light pooling between them like a fragile truce. “It’s not the tea,” he said at last, his voice low and rough. “It’s the lavender.”
Rosa felt a chill creep up her spine. “What’s wrong with it?”
Jeb hesitated, his eyes flitting to the glowing field behind her. “It takes your pain,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t stop there.”
Her stomach turned. “What does that mean?”
He took a step closer, his shadow stretching over her like a warning. “It doesn’t just take your pain—it takes everything. Your fire, your soul. You feel better, sure, but you stop feeling anything.”
The weight of his words sank into her, heavy and suffocating. Rosa’s grip tightened on the mug until her knuckles ached. “You could’ve warned me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I did,” he replied quietly, his gaze steady. “In my own way.”
Rosa slammed the mug onto the ground, its contents spilling into the dirt. “Why would you give me something like that?”
Jeb didn’t flinch. He leaned on his cane, his face etched with something between regret and joy. “Because misery loves company,” he said, his voice softer now. “I lost my wife to this field years ago. She drank the tea, just like you. It took her pain, her anger, her passion. Took everything that made her... her.” He swallowed hard, his eyes glassy. “I thought maybe if I wasn’t the only one, I could forget what it cost me. Maybe it’d feel fairer if someone else knew what it felt like to lose so much.”
Rosa stared at him, her chest tight. “So you wanted to drag me down with you?”
Jeb’s shoulders sagged under the weight of her words. “I didn’t want to be alone anymore,” he admitted, his voice breaking.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The lavender field swayed faintly behind them, its sickly glow casting strange patterns across the ground.
Rosa stepped back, shaking her head. “You’re pathetic,” she said, her voice trembling with disgust.
Jeb didn’t argue. He just watched her go, his lantern flickering behind her as she walked away from the field, the cabin, and the man who had tried to trap her in his grief.
Her knees ached as she climbed the hill, the pain clawing its way back into her body. But with every step, Rosa felt something else returning, too: her fire. Her anger. Her self.
***
Rosa stormed out of the cabin, her steps quick and sure, her body humming with a vitality that felt unnatural—alien, even. The strength she’d once prayed for now coursed through her limbs, but it carried a weight she couldn’t name, a hollowness that chilled her to the bone.The lavender field beckoned her under the pale, swollen moon. Its scent grew heavier the closer she approached, no longer soothing but sickening, as if the air itself had turned syrupy sweet. The blooms swayed faintly in a breeze that didn’t exist, their violet glow almost hypnotic.
She stopped at the edge of the field, her chest heaving with anger and confusion. The lavender seemed alive, a sea of pulsing light, each flower straining toward her as though reaching for her soul. Rosa stepped forward, the soft earth giving way beneath her boots, and knelt in the center of the field.
The first stalk tore easily, its stem snapping with a sickly wet sound. She ripped another, then another, her movements frantic. Her hands moved faster than her mind, guided by a primal instinct to destroy, to purge this place of its malignant beauty.
The sharp edges of the stalks bit into her palms, drawing thin lines of blood that dripped onto the thirsty soil. But Rosa didn’t stop. She worked until her hands were scratched and raw, her breath coming in gasps, her chest tight with effort.
And then, like a tide rolling back, the pain returned. It began as a faint ache in her fingers, a whisper of discomfort that quickly grew into a scream. Her knees buckled under the sudden weight of it, her joints flaring with the sharp, familiar agony she’d thought she could never bear again.
Rosa dropped to the ground, clutching her hands to her chest. The broken lavender stalks around her seemed to tremble, their glow dimming as if the field itself jerk back from her defiance. She gasped as the pain surged through her body, relentless and raw, crawling into every joint, every nerve.
For a moment, she almost regretted it—almost. But then, as the tears streamed down her face, something deeper surfaced: relief.
The pain was cruel, yes, but it was hers. It was real. It was the one thing that proved she hadn’t been completely consumed by the hollow perfection the lavender had promised. It reminded her of her fight, her resilience. And despite everything, it reminded her of who she was.
She stayed there, crumpled among the broken stalks, until the moon sank lower in the sky and the field was cast in shadow. Her breaths steadied, the sharpness of the pain settling into a dull, rhythmic throb. Slowly, Rosa pushed herself to her feet, wobbling as her knees protested the movement.
The cabin door was ajar when she returned, creaking softly in the night breeze. Inside, the fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a dim, flickering glow. Jeb was gone—no note, no sign of his presence except the faint scent of his lantern oil lingering in the air.
Rosa stood in the empty cabin, her body aching with every beat of her heart. She looked at her hands, the scratches stark against her skin, and flexed her fingers despite the pain. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.
“Guess you couldn’t stick around to face this,” she muttered to the shadows.
She sank into the chair by the hearth, letting the warmth of the dying embers seep into her skin. The lavender’s scent still clung faintly to her clothes, but now it felt distant, powerless. Rosa closed her eyes, feeling the rhythmic pulse of pain in her body as if it were the tempo of a song only she could hear.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t push the pain away. She didn’t fight it or curse it. She simply let it be, letting it remind her she was alive, still standing, still herself.
Jeb was gone. The lavender field lay in ruins. And yet, in the midst of all that loss, Rosa felt something she hadn’t in years: a quiet, unshakable sense of strength.
***
Back in the city, Rosa’s pain returned as relentless as ever, an old adversary reclaiming its territory. Her knees stiffened in the mornings; her fingers ached as she typed, each keystroke a reminder of the battles she fought daily. Yet, something fundamental had shifted within her. The pain was still there, but it no longer defined her—no longer consumed her.At work, a coworker flopped into the seat beside her, cradling a finger wrapped in a colorful Band-Aid. “Worst morning ever,” they groaned, holding up the injury. “I got this paper cut, and it’s right on the knuckle. Can’t even bend my hand without wincing.”
Rosa paused, studying the sliver of red beneath the Band-Aid. She didn’t roll her eyes or offer the empty sympathy she might’ve before. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice calm but carrying the weight of something unshakable.
“You think you know pain?” she said, her tone soft yet firm, a quiet storm. “Let me tell you about mine.”
Her coworker’s eyes widened, startled. For a moment, they looked as though they might interrupt, but Rosa continued, her words deliberate and measured.
“Imagine waking up every day and feeling like your own body is at war with you. Imagine fighting to get out of bed, not because you’re tired, but because every joint in your body feels like it’s on fire. Imagine holding back tears just to pour a cup of coffee because even that feels impossible some mornings.”
The office grew quieter around them. Conversations dimmed as Rosa’s words hung in the air like smoke.
Her coworker mumbled an apology, but Rosa waved it off, a faint smile tugging at her lips. This wasn’t about them. It wasn’t even about the paper cut.
For years, she had worn the mask: the polite smiles, the hollow reassurances, the forced laughter that kept her pain hidden from a world too quick to dismiss it. But now, her smile wasn’t a mask. It wasn’t armor. It was something raw, unyielding—a reflection of who she had become.
She no longer needed anyone to understand the depth of her suffering. She no longer craved their pity or validation.
She understood herself. And that was enough.
When her coworker scurried away, Rosa returned to her desk, the ache in her hands sharp but familiar, like the chords of a song she’d long since learned to play. She stretched her fingers, pressed them to the keys, and began to type. Each letter, each sentence, was a quiet triumph.
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