The hill above the village of Witherwood was never green. It was a soft, shifting purple, a sea of lavender that bloomed in defiant waves against the grey sky. For generations, the villagers had whispered that the lavender grew not from soil, but from the memory of a storm.
Together, they plunged into the darkness. But the well had no water at the bottom. It had only lavender—a deep, dry, rustling sea of petals that broke their fall. They lay there, breathless, buried to their chins in purple, staring up at a circular sky still weeping blossoms. jackandjill lavynder rain
Above them, the lavender rain began to slow. The clouds thinned. A single ray of sun broke through, turning the falling petals into tiny, bruised jewels. The hill above the village of Witherwood was never green
“Run!” Jill laughed, but the word was wrong. You couldn’t run through a rain that fell like feathers. The ground underfoot became a soft, shifting carpet of crushed flowers. Together, they plunged into the darkness