Laurel never made a fuss about her birthday.
She preferred quiet mornings, a well-steeped tisane, and perhaps a new quill if her old one had worn thin. The greenhouse, with its dew-silvered glass and the scent of lemon balm rising with the sun, was celebration enough.
Which was precisely why Rowan had chosen it.
That morning, Laurel woke to find the apothecary unusually quiet. No bouncing footsteps. No Pippin meowing for breakfast. Just the gentle crackle of the hearth and a note folded neatly on the counter.
"Come to the greenhouse. Bring nothing but yourself. — R."
Laurel raised an eyebrow but complied. She slipped on her boots, tucked her hair into a braid, and stepped out.
The path to the greenhouse was lined with sprigs of mint and marigold—freshly clipped and twined into garlands. She smiled despite herself.
Inside, the greenhouse had been transformed.
Glass jars filled with fairy lights hung between the rafters. The central table, normally reserved for potting soil and drying herbs, had been scrubbed clean and covered in a soft mossy runner. At its center stood a modest but beautiful cake—lavender and honey, with a sprig of candied thyme on top.
Rowan popped out from behind a potted lemon tree. "Surprise!"
Pippin, wearing a very small paper crown, meowed in solidarity.
Laurel blinked. "What is all this?"
Rowan grinned. "It's your birthday. And the plants insisted."
The first guest arrived with the scent of warm cinnamon and polished wood.
It was Bram, carrying a hand-carved herb press wrapped in soft linen. "For your lemon balm," he said, gruffly. "You always say I press too hard with the old one."
Laurel traced the smooth woodgrain with a thumb. "You remembered."
Bram shrugged. "Didn't seem right not to."
Next came Seraphina, who floated in like afternoon mist, bearing a scroll wrapped in violet silk. "A map of old Willowmere," she said, eyes twinkling. "With a few hidden paths only the elders know. In case you ever want to disappear for a moment."
Laurel laughed. "That sounds dangerously tempting."
Rowan passed out tiny cups of ginger pear cordial. More neighbors arrived: the twin bakers with a loaf shaped like a bundle of herbs, Old Marna with a scarf she'd dyed using beetroot and skywater, and even Thistle the grumpy postmaster, who brought a stone paperweight in the shape of a snail. "Found it. Thought of you."
"Thanks?" Laurel said, amused.
By the time the sun slanted low through the greenhouse panes, the table overflowed with tokens—nothing lavish, just thoughtful things, sewn, carved, gathered, or enchanted with quiet care.
Pippin watched from a windowsill, occasionally swatting at dangling ribbons.
Laurel looked around and found herself a little overwhelmed.
After the gifts came the garden games.
Rowan had organized a "Guess the Scent" challenge, using cloth strips soaked in tinctures. Laurel guessed every one without hesitation, from valerian to moonleaf.
"She's unbeatable," muttered Bram, squinting suspiciously at a strip that smelled vaguely like shoe polish.
"That one's Pippin's paw balm," Laurel said with a wink.
Pippin looked offended. "My feet smell like rosemary and grace."
Later, Seraphina told a story about the first Willowmere greenhouse, how it once grew tomatoes the size of cushions before the village's soil learned moderation.
Laughter bubbled. Candles flickered.
As twilight pressed its fingers against the glass panes, Rowan slipped out and returned with a small box.
It was tied with ribbon made from barkfiber lace. Inside sat a tiny charm: a miniature door carved from ashwood, barely the size of a thumbprint.
"For your grimoire," Rowan said, suddenly shy. "So you always have a way out. Or a way in. Whichever you need more."
Laurel held it gently between finger and thumb. The charm was delicate but solid, and etched with three tiny runes: trust, stillness, return.
She looked up, her voice soft. "Thank you."
Rowan's ears pinked. "You're... kind of everything to me."
There was a pause. A quiet one, but not empty.
Laurel leaned forward and pulled her into a hug.
"You, too," she whispered.
The candles were lit at last—twelve little flames nestled into the frosting of the herb cake, dancing as if they too had something to say.
Laurel didn't make a wish. She simply took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and blew them out in one go.
The room hushed for a heartbeat.
Then the greenhouse burst into applause.
Slices of cake were passed around, served on dried lily pads lined with wax paper. The lavender hinted at summer; the honey tasted like yesterday's sunshine. Even Pippin received a sliver, which he sniffed, nudged, and eventually consumed with theatrical dignity.
The guests left slowly, in drifting twos and threes, trailing warmth behind them.
Rowan stayed to help tidy up, stacking cups and brushing crumbs from moss.
"I think it worked," she said, glancing around. "You smiled at least seven times."
Laurel, curled on the bench with her boots off and her hair unbraided, nodded. "It was... perfect."
Outside, fireflies blinked like gentle punctuation marks against the dark.
Laurel opened her grimoire. Carefully, reverently, she slipped the ashwood door charm into its center fold. It fit.
Later that night, long after the last candle had been snuffed and the last ember had cooled, a single vine unfurled from the greenhouse's edge.
It curled around the door.
And gently, tenderly, it bloomed.