Beneath the Lavender Sky

Amelia

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“In dreams, Amelia finds herself drawn to a field of lavender, where sweet mist breathes and lilies sigh. A mysterious woman, her face always blurred, beckons from the haze, pointing towards a house cloaked in intentional fog – a place Amelia can never quite see, yet feels inexplicably known.

But what if these aren’t just dreams? What if they are whispers from a forgotten past, echoes reaching across time, calling her home to a legacy she never knew existed?

Prepare to be captivated by a haunting tale of ancestral secrets, a love lost to time, and a truth that demands to be seen.

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Excerpt

Epigraph:

I once dreamed of a quiet sky,

 beneath the purple haze and the lilies’ sigh…

 — Amelia (Beneath the Lavender Sky)

Prologue

Journal Entry — February 13^th

Many times, I have returned to that field—in my dreams, beneath the purple haze, and the lilies’ sigh, where love and decadence feel indistinguishable. A dream that has become well-known to my spirit now.

The sweet mist of lavender doesn’t just fill the air—it breathes. It moves through me, drapes across my skin, tangles my hair, and slips beneath my ribs. It settles deep in my chest like breath I forgot I was holding.

It’s familiar. Too familiar.

In that field—yes, and in that field, I always see her.

            A woman.

She drifts through the warm, golden hush, where lilies sway and lavender rain fall  in soft, silent threads. Her movements are slow, deliberate, and weightless—like a memory unmoored from time.

Her face is always blurred. Not by distance, but by something softer—like the mist shields her from view. And yet she feels known to me. Like someone I should remember.

She lifts her arms—not reaching, not pleading—just inviting.

 As if calling me to her side. As if I’ve always belonged there.

And every time, I almost go.

But then she turns just slightly and points.

Always in the same direction.

There’s something there, beyond the veil of the unfamiliar.

It looks like a building. Perhaps a house. But the purple hue cloud thickens around it, cloaking its edges in a way that feels intentional, like the fog itself is guarding it.

I can never see it.

Her face is still unreadable, but it has changed in some way.

Not a threat. Not afraid.

Just waiting.

—Amelia

Chapter One: Cornwall

The name’s Amelia—Ames, if you’re someone who knew me before everything dulled.

It’s strange how easy it is to lose track of what feeling alive once meant. I used to think it came from passion, spontaneity, love, but now, I’m not sure I’d recognize it if it stood in front of me. After what happened, I stopped expecting much from people. Trust became something slippery, something I couldn’t hold onto, no matter how tightly I tried.

My fiancé and my best friend—two people I thought I knew—proved me wrong in the most clichéd way possible. I won’t get into the details. It was the kind of betrayal that empties you so thoroughly, it makes silence feel like a relief. So, I left. I packed up what was left of my clarity and dignity, crossed the Atlantic, and started over in New York.

I thought if I started somewhere no one knew me, maybe I could rebuild—maybe even become someone worth being again.

I’m an artist, at least I try to be. But it’s not the kind of art that sells. My canvases lean against the walls of my apartment, half-finished and quietly fading in the light of late afternoons. I wait tables at a place I hate, serve people who don’t see me, and come home too tired to pick up a brush.

Money comes in just enough to leave again. Rent. Groceries. Another month clinging by the edges. I’m not drowning exactly, but I’m not breathing, either. It’s more like treading water—barely.

My parents died years ago. No siblings. No known relatives, at least anyone whom I’d ever met. I used to wonder if there was someone out there who shared a thread of blood with me, someone I might stumble across by accident, someone who might say, “I know you.” But that kind of thinking doesn’t help. You learn to stop reaching for things that aren’t reaching back.

Life’s been quiet lately. Not peaceful—just still. There’s a difference.

The kind of stillness that settles over you like dust.

Heavy and unnoticed, until one day you feel buried.

The next morning arrived, and while making breakfast, I found myself pacing back and forth in my kitchen, noticing how I had neglected my correspondence over the last couple of days. It kept piling up, like a swarm of bees waiting for me to open it. An envelope stood atop a stack of others—off-white, windowed, official-looking. I was barefoot in the kitchen, holding a mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand and lazily flipping through the mail with the other, as if I already knew what was inside. Bills. Notices of overdue payments. A last warning from the electric company, which was funny because it was printed in red. I sighed and threw each one into the dented metal bin by the counter.

There was another envelope that had no window, just my name in thin, almost handwritten type, and an unfamiliar return address. It didn’t register. I’d barely glanced at it.

“Legal Services—Cornwall, England.”

Junk, probably. A summons. Or worse—more debt. It also struck me as odd that it came from England. I didn’t give it another thought and crumpled it in one motion, then dropped it into the bin with the rest. The paper made no protest.

Three days later, the phone rang during the late afternoon lull, after I’d laid my brushes down for the day. Paint still clung to my fingers, the color a soft violet I didn’t remember choosing.

I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered the call anyway, my voice dry, annoyed.

“Hello?”

“Amelia Stauton?” The voice was crisp. Male. Measured.

I frowned. “Yes… who’s calling?”

“This is Daniel Stark, with Stark & Breton Associates. I’ve been trying to contact you regarding a matter related to an inheritance. My office sent a letter to your current residence, but we haven’t received a response.”

Something in my stomach twisted—reflex, not recognition.

“I must’ve tossed it,” I said, trying to sound apologetic, but my tone was flat.

“Yes, well… I understand these things happen. The matter is somewhat time sensitive. Your great-uncle, Edward Stauton, recently passed away. You’re now officially his only heir.”

I blinked. “My… who?”

“Edward Stauton. Your father’s uncle. He lived in Cornwall, England—a private man, from what I understand. The estate includes a property—a house—and several acres of land, as well as a shed. I can email you the details and paperwork.”

I felt the room pull back slightly, as if it were tilting.

“I didn’t know I had any family left,” I murmured.

There was a pause, the kind of pause attorneys know how to leave. “Well, now you do. In a manner of speaking.”

The words lingered in the room longer than they should have. I could hear them even after speaking, as if they’d echoed somewhere inside the walls.

“I’ll forward the documents to your email,” he continued. “But we would strongly recommend you visit the property in person before making any decisions. Some details may be better understood when seen firsthand.”

“In person?” I repeated.

“Yes,” he said, and though his voice remained formal, something shifted in its tone—almost as if he were warning me without saying it. “The manor is quite old. Isolated. Unique. Some nuances may not come through on paper.”

Nuances. I didn’t like the way he said that.

“All right,” I replied, my throat drier than before. “I’ll take a look.”

“Good. My assistant will be in touch to coordinate the details with you shortly. If you choose to proceed, the property is legally yours by default. You’ll find the house has been maintained to a degree.”

“To a degree?”

He hesitated. “You’ll see.”

He ended the call without the usual pleasantries.

I stood there for a while, the phone still in my hand, paint drying between my fingers—Violet—soft, muted, almost iridescent. I looked at the canvas across the room. Something had shifted in it. I didn’t remember painting the horizon that way. Or the roofline of the house that began to take shape.

A thin line of mist curled along the edge of the field. It hadn’t been there the day before.

Copyright © 2025 Daniana Medina
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Disclaimer:
Beneath the Lavender Sky is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, or organizations is purely coincidental.

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Daniana Medina
https://dmedinawriter.blog
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