Chapter 2: The Man in The Café
Isla woke before dawn, the house still echoing with the shape of her restless dreams. She’d slept on the couch under Ruth’s old blanket, too uneasy to climb the stairs to her childhood bedroom. Every creak and sigh of the old house had felt like a whisper. By the time the first pale light slipped through the lace curtains, she’d made up her mind: she needed air. She needed coffee stronger than the one she’d spilled. And she needed answers she didn’t want to admit she was searching for.
She tugged on jeans, an old navy sweater, and pulled her hair back into a low knot that did nothing to hide how wild it felt — much like her thoughts. The lily from the porch step sat in a chipped mug on the mantel now, its petals half-open, fragile yet impossible to ignore. Isla glared at it as she slipped on her boots. She told herself she didn’t care who left it. That it didn’t matter if it was him. She was here for one thing only — to close the door for good.
Outside, the morning was cool, the air crisp with lingering mist. The garden to her left seemed to watch her as she walked down the path. She paused at the gate, brushing her fingertips against the flaking paint. It squealed just like last night when the shadow slipped away. She gave the latch a soft tug and let it slam shut behind her. Stay closed, she ordered it silently.
Main Street felt too awake for how early it was. Shopkeepers lifted metal shutters, and the scent of baking bread from the corner bakery tangled with fresh rain. She wondered if anyone would recognize her. If her name still held weight here — Isla Cross, the girl who ran away and stayed gone.
When she pushed open the door to Lily’s Café, the familiar bell chimed, a sound that made her stomach twist with memory. The place smelled like cinnamon, strong black coffee, and something sweeter she couldn’t name. Warmth wrapped around her shoulders, more comforting than she wanted to admit.
And there he was — Jonas Hale, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair a little longer than it had been a decade ago, beard shadowing his jaw. He stood behind the counter, fussing with the espresso machine like it was an old friend. She wondered if he’d felt her watching, because before she could pretend she wasn’t, he looked up. Their eyes caught, the same way they always had — like a spark that needed no permission.
“You’re up early,” he said, voice low, warm — annoyingly calm.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she lied. She stepped to the counter, forcing her hands into her pockets so he wouldn’t see them shake.
“Big old house too quiet for you?” he teased, but there was something softer behind his smile. He reached for a mug and filled it without asking how she took her coffee. He still remembered. Black, no sugar. Always bitter, always strong.
“Don’t do that,” Isla said.
He raised an eyebrow, sliding the mug across the worn wood. “Do what?”
“Act like this is normal.” She wrapped her hands around the warmth anyway.
Jonas leaned forward, forearms braced on the counter. “It is normal. You’re back, you’re drinking my coffee. It’s exactly how it should be.”
“You don’t know why I’m here.”
He gave her that crooked half-smile that had once made her say yes to everything — to sneaking out after curfew, to carving their names into the garden gate, to dreaming too big for Greenridge. “Sure I do. Ruth’s house. The garden. You’re here to bury the ghosts.”
Isla flinched at how casually he said it. She looked away, studying the shelves behind him instead — jars of tea, old photos tacked to the corkboard, a cracked ceramic vase overflowing with dried lavender. Lavender, lilies, always flowers, she thought. He never changed.
“Who left them?” she asked quietly.
He tilted his head. “Left what?”
“The lilies,” she pressed. “On the mantle. On the porch. They weren’t there when I locked the place up after the funeral.”
Jonas didn’t flinch. “Maybe Ruth’s ghost.”
She shot him a look. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He leaned back, drumming his fingers on the counter. “The garden’s wild this time of year. Lilies pop up wherever they please.”
Isla’s laugh was sharp. “They don’t pop up in mason jars, tied with ribbons.”
Jonas said nothing for a long moment. The café door opened behind her, a gust of morning chatter and the smell of damp pavement sweeping in with a pair of older women. Jonas greeted them with that easy smile, poured their coffee, passed them scones wrapped in brown paper. Isla watched him — the way he moved, calm and practiced, so familiar it made her chest ache.
When the women settled into the corner booth, Jonas turned back to her. “Maybe you should come by the café more. Spend less time alone in that big house.”
“I’m not staying,” she shot back, maybe too quickly.
“Right,” he said softly, but there was something knowing in his eyes. “You said that before.”
Before she could bite back, the bell above the door jingled again. Jonas’ eyes flicked over her shoulder, and his expression shifted — amused but guarded.
She turned. A girl stood in the doorway, no more than sixteen or seventeen, wearing an oversized hoodie and clutching something behind her back. Her eyes darted from Isla to Jonas and back again.
“Hey, Ellie,” Jonas said, his voice gentler than Isla expected.
The girl shuffled forward, lifting her hand. A lily, white and trembling in her grip, its stem wrapped with a frayed red ribbon — just like the one Isla had found last night.
“This was on the steps again,” Ellie mumbled. “By the garden fence. I thought — I didn’t want the wind to ruin it.”
Jonas thanked her softly, taking the flower like a secret. Ellie ducked out without another word, the bell jingling behind her like nervous laughter.
Isla stared at the lily in his hand. “Again? So you do know something.”
Jonas didn’t answer right away. He placed the lily on the counter between them, petals wide and perfect, droplets of mist clinging to the green stem.
“Some things don’t stay buried, Isla,” he said, voice low. “Some roots go deeper than you think.”
She wanted to ask what that meant, wanted to demand the truth — but the words stuck in her throat when the door swung open again. This time, no one entered. The bell rang and rang, caught in a draft that chilled her to the bone.
Outside, across the street, a figure stood half-hidden behind the old oak near the bus stop. Too far to see clearly, but Isla could swear they were watching her. And in the figure’s hand — unmistakable in the gray dawn — was another lily.
Fresh. Waiting.