The earth, warmed by the late morning sun of a Korčulan May, released a scent that was Ina's personal scripture. It was a fragrance of dust and stone, of wild thyme crushed underfoot, of the dry, grassy breath of the Dalmatian karst, and, rising above it all, the heady, calming perfume of lavender. To Ina Marović, this small, sloping field on the outskirts of Korčula Town was not merely a piece of land she tended; it was her sanctuary, her confidante, the very anchor of her soul.
She worked with the practiced, rhythmic movements of someone who knew every inch of the soil. A wide-brimmed straw hat shielded her face from the sun's most ardent attentions, but her arms, bare to the shoulder and already tanned a warm gold, gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat. Her hands, nimble and strong, moved with a dancer's grace. She used a small, sharp sickle, its curved blade flashing as it caught the light. With one hand, she gathered a bunch of the long, slender stalks, heavy with their purple blooms; with the other, she swept the sickle in a clean, precise arc. A soft snick, and the bundle was free. She laid it gently in the wide, woven basket at her feet, already half-full with the day's harvest.
The sound was a meditation. The buzz of industrious bees, the distant chirp of cicadas from the pine woods that bordered the field, the faint, far-off clang of a bell buoy in the channel, and the whisper of the lavender as it gave itself to her care. This was her world. A world of quiet order and predictable cycles. The planting, the tending, the anxious wait for buds, the triumphant harvest, the distillation into oil, the bundling into sachets. It was a life she had built for herself, a deliberate retreat from the noise and haste of a world she'd never quite felt part of.
Her lavender shop, aptly named "Lavanda," nestled in a narrow, sun-dappled street within the ancient walled city, was an extension of this sanctuary. But here, in the field, she was truly alone. And she preferred it that way.
She straightened up, pressing her fists into the small of her back to ease the pleasant ache of labor. The view from this part of the field never failed to steal her breath, even after a lifetime on the island. Below her, the red-roofed houses of Korčula Town clustered like a terracotta crown around the central stone bulwark of St. Mark's Cathedral, its bell tower piercing the brilliant blue dome of the sky. Beyond, the Adriatic Sea lay, a breathtaking tapestry of blues—sapphire where the channels were deep, turquoise over the shallows, and a shimmering, almost silver azure where the sun hit it directly. The green, humpbacked islands of the archipelago dotted the horizon like sleeping sea monsters.
It was perfect. Utterly, completely perfect.
And then, it wasn't.
It began not as a sound, but as a sensation. A vibration that started in the soles of her feet, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to travel up through her bones, setting her very teeth on edge. It was the feeling of standing too close to a high-voltage power line, a thrum of immense, latent energy. But there were no power lines here. This was pure, unadulterated earth.
The air around her shimmered. Not with heat haze, which was a common, wavy distortion near the ground. This was different. It was as if the air itself had become a liquid, rippling with a light that had no source. For a dizzying second, the colors around her intensified to an impossible degree. The purple of the lavender became almost violently vivid, the green of the leaves a shocking emerald, the brown of the soil a deep, rich umber that seemed to pulse with life. The very scent of the lavender, usually a gentle calming agent, seemed to sharpen, becoming spicier, more potent, an aroma that went straight to her head like a strong wine.
Ina froze, her hand halfway to another stalk. Her heart, a moment before beating a slow, contented rhythm, was now a frantic bird trapped in the cage of her ribs. She held her breath, her senses stretched to their limits. The hum was everywhere and nowhere, a bass note from the core of the world. She could feel it in the fillings of her teeth, a low, metallic buzz.
What is that?
Her eyes darted across the field, searching for a source—a tractor on a distant road, some new machinery from the nearby vineyard, a boat with a powerful engine passing unusually close to shore. But there was nothing. The world was still, holding its breath with her. The only movement was the gentle sway of the lavender in a breeze she could no longer feel, and the frantic, confused dance of the bees, their buzzing suddenly agitated.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
The hum vanished. The air settled, the shimmering effect gone. The colors returned to their normal, beautiful, but now somehow diminished, hues. The overwhelming scent of lavender softened back to its familiar, comforting level. The world snapped back into focus, but it felt different. It felt… expectant.
Ina let out the breath she'd been holding in a long, shaky gust. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the wild hammering against her palm.
"Bog te," she whispered to the empty air, the Croatian oath slipping out automatically. God.
She stood there for a full minute, perfectly still, waiting for it to return. But the only sounds were the returning, steady buzz of the bees and the distant sea. The moment had passed.
A slow, rational explanation began to form in her mind, pushing back against the primal fear. The heat. It had to be the heat. She'd been bending over for too long, the sun was strong today, stronger than she'd realized. She'd probably stood up too fast. A dizzy spell. A trick of the light and a sudden rush of blood to the head. That was all. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
She picked up her water bottle from the basket and took a long, cool drink, the water doing little to quench the strange thirst that had sprung up in her soul. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked down at the lavender she had just cut. The stalks seemed… brighter, more vibrant than the ones she'd harvested earlier. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. You're being fanciful, Ina. This is what comes of spending too much time alone.
Determined to regain her equilibrium, she bent back to her work. But her rhythm was broken. Her movements were jerky, her attention fractured. Every rustle of a leaf, every shift in the light, made her jump. She felt watched. It was an unsettling, skin-prickling sensation, as if a thousand invisible eyes were focused on her from the pine woods, from the very soil beneath her feet.
The feeling was so potent that she finally stopped again and turned a slow, deliberate circle, scanning the perimeter of her field. The ancient dry-stone wall, built by her grandfather's hands, was unchanged. The gnarled old olive trees at the edge of the property stood as they always had, their silver-green leaves whispering secrets she couldn't understand. The pine woods were a dark, cool mass, offering no sign of an intruder.
There was nothing there.
And yet, the feeling persisted. It wasn't a malevolent presence. It didn't feel dangerous, like a predator stalking prey. It was… curious. Intensely, overwhelmingly curious. It was the feeling of being the most fascinating subject in the universe, examined by a consciousness so vast and ancient it had no name.
"Get a grip," she muttered to herself, the sound of her own voice a small comfort in the unnerving silence. "There is no one here."
She forced herself to continue harvesting, focusing on the simple, physical task. The weight of the basket grew, the fragrant stalks piling up. The sun climbed higher, its heat becoming a tangible weight on her shoulders. She usually loved this feeling, the honest fatigue of a good day's work. Today, it just felt heavy.
After what felt like an eternity, her basket was full. She couldn't carry another stalk. It was time to go back. She hoisted the basket onto her hip, its familiar weight a small anchor to normality. She took one last look around her field. Everything was as it should be. The lavender stood in neat, purple rows, the bees buzzed, the sun shone. The strange event of an hour ago seemed like a dream, a fleeting anomaly.
She began the short walk back to the small, stone cottage that had been in her family for generations, nestled just beyond the field, sheltered by a grove of cypress trees. As she walked, her mind kept circling back to the sensation. The hum. The shimmer. The feeling of being seen.
She passed the old well, its stone rim cool and mossy. As she did, a cluster of wild poppies growing at its base caught her eye. They had been buds this morning, tight green fists clenched against the world. Now, they were in full, spectacular bloom, their petals a shocking, velvety crimson, as if a drop of blood had fallen onto the green grass. They hadn't been like that when she passed them on her way out. She was sure of it.
She stopped, staring at the flowers. A coincidence. They were just… late bloomers. The heat, again.
But the doubt was now a seed, planted deep in the fertile soil of her mind.
Reaching the cottage, she pushed the heavy, wooden door open and stepped into the cool, dark interior. The familiar scents of home—dried herbs, stone, and lemon-scented polish—washed over her. She set the heavy basket down on the long, wooden table in the center of the kitchen with a sigh of relief.
Her calico cat, Mačka, uncurled herself from a patch of sunlight on the stone floor and stretched, arching her back before weaving a figure-eight around Ina's ankles, purring like a tiny engine.
"Hey, you," Ina said, her voice soft as she scooped the animal up, burying her face in the soft fur. The simple, mundane act was a balm. "Strange things in the field today, Mačka. Very strange."
The cat, unimpressed, merely purred louder and bumped her head against Ina's chin.
Ina carried her to the sink, filled a glass with water, and drank deeply. She looked out the small kitchen window, which framed a perfect picture of her lavender field leading down to the sea. It was so peaceful. So normal.
She thought about the evening ahead. She would tie the lavender into bundles and hang them from the beams in the spare room to dry. She would update the ledger for the shop, restock the shelves with soaps and sachets. She would have a simple dinner of bread, cheese, and olives from her own trees. A quiet, predictable evening.
But the memory of the hum, the shimmer, the intense, curious presence, lingered at the edge of her consciousness, a ghost at the feast of her ordinary life. She had brushed it off as the heat, but the explanation felt flimsy now, inside the solid reality of her stone cottage. It hadn't felt like heat. It had felt like… life. Life itself, potent and conscious, had stirred in her field.
Shaking her head, she set the cat down and began to unload the basket, laying the lavender stalks out on the table. As she handled them, she noticed it again. These stalks, the ones she'd cut after the event, were different. They were sturdier, their color more profound, their scent so rich and complex it made her head spin. She brought a bunch to her nose and inhaled deeply. It was the scent of her field, yes, but it was also the scent of damp earth after a summer storm, of wild forests, of something ancient and wild and powerfully, fundamentally male.
A flush crept up her neck, warming her cheeks. It was an absurd thought. Lavender was lavender.
But as she stood in her quiet kitchen, the scent of the impossible lavender filling the air, Ina Marović knew, with a certainty that chilled and excited her in equal measure, that something had changed. Her sanctuary had been visited. And whatever it was that had passed through her field, leaving a trail of vibrating air and prematurely blooming poppies in its wake, was not finished with her. The hum of the earth had spoken, and whether she was ready or not, her quiet, predictable life had just been irrevocably altered.
The chapter of solitude was closing, and a new one, fraught with mystery and a terrifying, exhilarating sense of anticipation, had just begun. Outside, the sun-drenched field lay quiet, but Ina could still feel the echo of the presence, a silent promise hanging in the warm, still air.