In the rain-soaked town of Havenwood, Chandani returns to confront ghosts of her fractured past. Through her bond with Alaric—a botanist mourning his late wife—she discovers love, loss, and the fragile beauty of life. But some wounds defy healing, and tragedy reminds her that grief is not only about losing others but also about mourning the lost parts of ourselves.
How does Havenwood reflect the emotions of its inhabitants?
Havenwood exuded the quiet dignity of a place long acquainted with loss. The rain-drenched streets seemed to hold whispered stories of broken hearts, while the ivy-covered walls bore witness to secrets left unsaid.
Fruit trees dotted the landscape—mangoes and guavas, their fruits often left to over-ripen and fall, as if even the trees mourned the neglect of happier times. The greenhouses, however, told a different tale: vibrant with bougainvillaea in every hue, sprigs of mint, and rare blooms nurtured by those clinging to life’s more delicate joys.
It was under these trees and between these greenhouses that lives intertwined. Love bloomed in stolen moments, pain etched itself into smiles, and healing whispered through leaves swaying in the breeze.
Who were Chandani and Alaric before fate brought them together?
Chandani’s past
Her escape to the city brought a fleeting sense of freedom but little peace. Nights were spent chasing deadlines; mornings, running from the ache in her chest that refused to leave.
Who else lives in Chandani’s World?
In Havenwood, neighbours were both strangers and family. There was Mrs Gupta, the baker, whose laugh could rival a thunderstorm, and her daughter Naina, who painted murals on abandoned walls.
Then there was Ethel, the town gossip, who seemed to know everyone’s business before they did. “He is handsome,” she said when she caught Chandani staring at Alaric in the market. “But tragic. His wife—gone, you know.”
And now, there was Alaric.
Alaric’s grief
What sparks their connection?
Their paths crossed in the most mundane of places—a market square bustling with chatter. Chandani was bargaining for guavas when Alaric’s quiet voice interrupted her.
“You would get a better deal if you didn’t scowl so much,” he said, a hint of teasing in his tone.
“And you would avoid a slap if you minded your own business,” she retorted, though her lips betrayed the beginnings of a smile.
It wasn’t love at first sight—no grandiose gestures or cinematic sparks. It was a slow unfolding, like petals of a flower reluctant to bloom.
How does their love story develop?
Through letters
Through late-night conversations
“What if we are too broken to love?” she asked one night, her voice barely audible over the rain.
“Then we’ll love in the broken places,” he replied, his gaze steady.
What obstacles threaten their fragile happiness?
The Ghost of Eira
“Do you think she’d approve of us?” Chandani asked one day, unable to hide her vulnerability.
“I think,” Alaric said, taking her hand, “she’d want me to be happy. And you make me happy.”
Letters from Chandani’s mother
“Will you respond?” Alaric asked gently, seeing her torment.
“No,” she said firmly. “Some wounds aren’t meant to heal.”
“Maybe you don’t have to forgive her,” he said. “Maybe it is enough to let go.”
How does tragedy strike?
The rain fell harder than usual the day Alaric proposed. He led Chandani to the greenhouse, now aglow with lanterns and brimming with her favourite flowers.
“I can’t promise to fix what’s broken,” he said, kneeling amidst the blooms. “But I’ll love you in every crack and crevice.”
Tears blurred her vision as she whispered, “Yes.”
But fate, as always, had other plans.
That very night, Havenwood’s cliffs gave way in a devastating landslide. Alaric’s cottage, perched precariously near the edge, was swallowed by the earth. Chandani, trapped in the greenhouse, could do nothing but scream as the ground crumbled beneath his home.
When the rain ceased, all that remained was rubble—and silence.
What makes grieving the past so complex?
Grief is not linear. For Chandani, it wasn’t just about losing Alaric. It was about the childhood she never had—the bedtime stories untold, the embraces withheld, and the words of love that would never come.
As a child, she remembered standing by the window during thunderstorms, her hands pressed against the cold glass, waiting for someone—anyone—to check if she was afraid. No one ever came.
Her mother was a woman of sharp edges, her affection measured in duties fulfilled rather than warmth given. “Love is a luxury we cannot afford,” she often said, her voice devoid of tenderness. Chandani’s father, a quiet man, had buried himself in his work, perhaps finding it easier than confronting the emotional wasteland of their home.
Even as an adult, Chandani often felt trapped in survival mode. She couldn’t enjoy the simple things—she didn’t know how.
“Do you ever just breathe?” Alaric asked her once, watching her race to complete a task.
“What do you mean?” she replied, genuinely puzzled.
“Breathe. Pause. Let the world catch up with you.”
“I don’t think I have ever done that,” she admitted, her voice tinged with a mix of shame and wonder.
What happens when Chandani revisits her childhood home?
Aunt Verity’s home was a strange mix of nostalgia and sorrow. Chandani’s room remained almost untouched—a time capsule of a little girl who had once dreamed of escaping. The wallpaper, faded but still adorned with tiny roses, seemed to mock her with its cheerfulness.
As she unpacked her suitcase, she found an old sketchbook buried among her things. Flipping through its pages, she saw the child she used to be—drawing pictures of imaginary families and writing letters addressed to no one.
Her hands trembled as she closed the sketchbook. The weight of her grief was overwhelming—not just for what she had lost but for the girl she used to be, the girl who had deserved so much more.
How does Chandani begin to confront her past?
Alaric became an unwitting guide in Chandani’s journey toward self-discovery.
One evening, as they sat beneath the mango trees in his garden, he asked her, “What is your happiest childhood memory?”
Chandani laughed bitterly. “I don’t think I have one.”
“There must be something,” he pressed gently.
She thought for a moment before replying, “There was a time when I found a stray cat. I hid it in my room for three days before my mother found out and made me let it go. For those three days, I felt... loved. I think I loved it back.”
Alaric’s expression softened. “You deserved more than a cat, Chandani.”
How does survival mode shape who we become?
Chandani had spent so much of her life in survival mode that she didn’t know how to let go of the constant vigilance. She measured every word she said, every action she took, afraid of judgment or rejection.
“I think I am afraid of being loved,” she confessed to Alaric one rainy evening.
“Why?” he asked, his voice as steady as the rain outside.
“Because love feels... temporary. Like something that can be taken away at any moment.”
Alaric nodded, his own grief flickering in his eyes. “I used to feel that way too. But love isn’t about permanence. It’s about presence.”
How does Chandani learn to mourn herself?
Grieving the love she never received was perhaps the hardest thing Chandani had ever done. It wasn’t like mourning Alaric—there were no flowers to place on a grave, no tangible object to say goodbye to.
Instead, she began writing letters to her younger self.
Each letter became a balm, a way to reach out to the little girl who had been lost along the way.
How does Havenwood remember Alaric?
Naina painted a mural in the town square: Alaric surrounded by orchids, his eyes alive with quiet joy. Beneath it, she inscribed his words: “Love in the broken places.”
The townspeople began visiting the greenhouse, now a sanctuary of remembrance. Each plant told a story, each bloom a testament to Alaric’s life and love. Chandani called it The Shadow’s Garden, a place where people could bring their pain and leave with hope.
What role do Alaric’s plants play in the story?
Alaric’s greenhouse became a sanctuary—not just for his rare orchids and stubborn jasmine but for Chandani as well. Each plant seemed to carry a lesson, a metaphor for resilience and healing.
“Do you see this orchid?” Alaric asked one day, holding up a fragile bloom.
She nodded.
“It thrives in harsh conditions. The more you try to coddle it, the weaker it becomes. Sometimes, strength comes from struggle.”
Chandani looked at the orchid, then at Alaric. “Do you think people are like that too?”
“I think,” he said, “people are much stronger than they believe.”
How does grief transform Chandani after Alaric’s death?
When Alaric died, Chandani felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her. But as time passed, she began to understand that grief wasn’t something to overcome—it was something to live with.
Grief became her shadow, unyielding and ever-present. She moved into Aunt Verity’s house but spent most of her days in Alaric’s greenhouse, nurturing the plants he loved.
One day, as she tended to a rare orchid he had cultivated, she found a letter tucked beneath its pot.
“Chandani,
Alaric.”
The letter was both a balm and a wound, a reminder of what she had lost and what she had gained.
She often visited the mural of Alaric in the town square, tracing her fingers over his painted smile. She imagined him saying, “Breathe, Chandani. Pause. Let the world catch up with you.”
Slowly, she began to rebuild—not a life without pain, but a life that honoured both her scars and her joys.
How does Chandani honour the girl she once was?
Chandani turned her childhood home into a refuge for children like her—those who had been unseen, unheard, and unloved. She turned it into a sanctuary for others who needed healing—a place where broken things could find beauty again.She called it The Havenwood Shelter.
On the shelter’s opening day, she stood beneath a banner that read: You Are Loved. Tears filled her eyes as she watched the children laugh and play, their joy a stark contrast to the silence of her own childhood.
“Do you think she’d be proud of me?” Chandani asked Aunt Verity, referring to her younger self.
“She already is,” Verity replied, her voice warm with affection.
What do we learn about grief and healing?
Her own wounds never fully healed, but they became part of her—a mosaic of scars that glimmered in the light.Grief, Chandani realised, wasn’t just about losing someone—it was about losing parts of ourselves along the way. It was about mourning the childhood we never had, the apologies we would never hear, and the love that was never given.
But it was also about finding the courage to love again, to hope again, and to rebuild from the ashes of what once was.
And in Havenwood, among the rain-drenched streets and blooming orchids, Chandani found that courage.
FAQs about grief, love, and healing
Love doesn’t erase grief, but it provides the strength to carry it differently.
Is it okay to mourn an unlived childhood?
Yes, acknowledging the loss is the first step towards healing.
How can nature help in emotional recovery?
Gardening and being in nature offer solace, symbolising growth and renewal.
Comments