The Scent of Violets and Promises

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From the Wilted Cabbage Shop
The shop smelled of lavender and old paper, of verbena, soul mint, and freshly ground clover. Liora moved among jars, pots, labels, and whispering dried flowers as if she herself were part of an ancient recipe—carefully weighed, a little playful, shot through with light. She wore her violet hair in two soft buns, and narrow elf ears peeked out from beneath the loose strands, as unobtrusive as a half-smile. The Wilted Cabbage, her small shop at the edge of the outer alleys, wasn't a place for quick fixes. It was the place afterward. When the tears had already been shed. When you didn't know what you were looking for—only that it was missing. The bell above the door tinkled timidly. It was that soft note that sounded as if the world itself were holding its breath. Liora raised her eyes. A boy, no older than eight, stood in the doorway, his hair windblown and a crushed bouquet of herbs in his fist. His gaze was serious, too serious for what his age should have allowed. "For my sister," he said without hesitation. "She can't dream anymore." Liora stepped out from behind the counter. Her skirt rustled like old parchment. "Since when?" "Since she lost her favorite light." Liora frowned almost imperceptibly. "Was it a star?" The boy considered. "I think... it was more of a feeling." She nodded, as if she had expected just that. Then she turned to her wall shelf—row 7, compartment B, between "Lost Trust" and "Discarded Wishes." There lay a small, round bottle that didn't look particularly special. But inside it shimmered something that couldn't be described. Like the glow of a window when a loved one stands in it. She added three dried leaves of dream-sailor bindweed, a pinch of star salt, and a drop of distilled child's courage. None of the ingredients glowed—yet, as they were mixed, they sounded like promises. "This isn't a healing potion," she said. "But a key." "To what?" asked the boy. "To what she forgot to look for." He paid with a button, two marbles, a bird's feather, and a quiet thank you. Liora accepted it as if it were gold coins. As he left, a waft of warm memory wafted through the shop. She jotted down the mixture in the Great Book of Shades—page 432, line 11: For those who have forgotten how to glow. Then she sat down, took a sip of violet tea, and listened to the whispering of the glasses. Some of them were dreaming themselves. Others merely waited. Outside, the wind ran its delicate fingers through the bluebells. And inside, in the Wilted Cabbage, lay the sweet, comforting scent of violets—and promises.