The morning after the storm felt strangely bright.
Sunlight spilled across the kitchen tiles like nothing had happened—as if the sky hadn't cracked open just hours before. But Elara knew better. The thunder had left something behind, an echo in her chest. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was clarity.
She found Rowan in the garden, already elbow-deep in damp soil, coaxing the drenched lavender stems upright with quiet care. When he looked up, his smile was soft, but restrained.
"We're okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "We are."
But the world wasn't.
The envelope arrived midmorning—thick, official-looking, stamped with a lawyer's insignia in bold black ink.
Elara stared at it for several minutes before opening it.
Inside: a notice of preliminary court proceedings regarding the disputed land bordering Honeyfern House. A formal hearing was set for two weeks from now in Portland. Accompanying it was a glossy proposal booklet from Sterling & Vale Properties, outlining detailed blueprints for a ten-building luxury resort—complete with spa, golf course, and private airstrip.
"They're not backing down," Rowan said, jaw clenched as he read over her shoulder.
"They're doubling down."
Elara spent the rest of the day making calls—to lawyers, environmental consultants, old family friends in Portland. The mood at Honeyfern shifted palpably. Even the bees seemed quieter.
That evening, a town council member named Judith Holloway dropped by unannounced.
"May I?" she asked at the door, already wringing her hands.
Elara led her to the porch. Judith had always been neutral—cordial, distant. Never hostile. Never warm. She sat stiffly on the bench, avoiding Elara's eyes.
"I wanted to tell you before it goes public," Judith began. "Sterling's attorneys filed a formal request for summary judgment. If the court approves it, the land could be re-zoned before the hearing."
Elara's breath left her. "That's—he's skipping due process?"
Judith nodded. "He's arguing you don't have sufficient proof of ownership on the ridge. Without a registered survey tied to your grandmother's original deed, he's pressing the council to relinquish the land for development."
"That ridge is part of our land," Elara said, her voice trembling with controlled fury. "We have maps. Journals. Testimony."
"Not enough for a court," Judith said gently. "Not unless you find a title document."
Elara stood. "So that's it? He twists the system and the town just lets him?"
Judith rose too. "He's threatening to sue the council personally if they obstruct. Some are scared. Others are tempted. He's offering buyouts, Elara. Three members have taken his meetings."
"Have you?"
Judith looked down. "I haven't said yes."
"But you haven't said no."
After Judith left, Elara paced the hallway until dusk.
Rowan watched her from the kitchen doorway. "We'll find a way," he said.
But her thoughts were louder than comfort.
If we don't find that title… we lose the land.
She rushed to the attic.
The boxes had sat undisturbed for decades—old receipts, water-stained letters, newspaper clippings. She dug through them one by one, lifting pages coated in dust, fingernails bitten to the quick.
It was nearly midnight when she found it.
Tucked inside a hollowed-out gardening book: a folded parchment, brittle with age, sealed with wax cracked at the edge. Her grandmother's handwriting danced across the top.
Deed of Amendment – Honeyfern Ridge Boundary, 1967.
Her breath hitched. It was stamped. Signed. Witnessed.
Proof.
She ran to the stairwell, heart pounding.
"Rowan!" she shouted.
He came running, eyes wide.
She held the document aloft. "We're not done."