Where the Golden Flowers Bloom

The sole of Elise’s boot nearly skids on the slippery moss, the path overgrown and damp from years of neglect. Not many hikers use it anymore, despite its once popularity. Elise doesn’t mind being the only one here. She prefers the quiet.

The trail has been steadily leading upward for over an hour, which means it’s close. The Golden Hill. At least, that’s what Elise calls it. She has no idea what its actual name is, or whether it ever had one.

Dried-up leaves crunch under her boots, loud in the morning stillness. Darkness lingers between the trees, the early light slow to arrive. Elise's breath clouds the air with every exhale. Her numb cheeks and raw nose are a testament to the harshness of the cold, creeping into her bones.

When the incline lessens, her pulse quickens. Anticipation overtakes exhaustion, and her legs, despite aching, pick up the pace. And who can blame her? She has been waiting for this day for a year. Three hundred and sixty-five days, to be exact.

A distinctive odour hits her nostrils. The scent of Golden Hill.

Elise slows, heart pounding, as the path opens into the lookout. A sea of golden flowers stretches before her, greeting her like an old friend. Dawn is beginning to settle in. The sky, however, is still pale and drained of colour, the sun hidden behind the ridge. Below, the town sleeps – windows dark, streets virtually empty.

The sight, the scent, the autumn breeze clinging to her exposed skin, hits all at once. The weight of it presses against her chest. Elise checks her watch, before the swell of emotions carry her away.

“He should be here by now,” she says aloud.

Restlessness sets in as she starts pacing like an animal trapped in a cage. The view beyond the cliff is an open invitation – displaying how easy it would be to take one step too far.

Movement at the far right of the lookout catches her eye. Elise startles, breath snagging as she turns.

A man stands near the edge, framed by the field in bloom, a silhouette against the sky. He faces the cliff, hands tucked into his pockets. There’s something unhurried about him, as if he had always belonged here.

Relief rushes in so quickly it leaves her light-headed. She stills. Fingers tighten on the sleeves of her jacket, grounding herself in the stiff fabric. Without thinking, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Restless energy drains from her body, replaced by something warmer. Something achingly familiar.

“Hey, stranger,” she finally calls. Her voice carries farther than she expects, echoing across the lookout.

He turns. At the same time, the sun leaves its hiding place and crests the top of the hill. Light spills across the golden flowers at his feet. For a moment, he looks lit from within – eyes sparkle, skin washed in gold. He appears vibrant, alive.

He shows her the most charming smile.

“Elise,” the familiar man utters, like he’s been holding it in all year. Her chest tightens, realizing how much she’s missed hearing her name from his mouth.

“You look beautiful,” he adds. Heat rushes into her chilled cheeks, softening them to a different shade of pink.

“Thanks, Nate. You look good too,” Elise replies softly. “You do every year.”

Beams of sunlight shift, carving gentle shadows across Nate’s face. She knows those features by heart. She'd always wondered what their kids would look like. Would they have his dimples? His dark, wavy hair or her thick, blonde locks? And their eyes, perhaps a mix of Nate’s and Elise’s different shades of blue?

The daydream slips away as she checks her watch again. A small sigh of relief escapes her. There’s still time.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, her gaze drifting toward the view. The rising sun lifts the blanket of washed-out colour from the hills and town below.

Nate follows her distant stare. “I’ve missed you too,” he replies, warm and smooth. “I miss touching you. Feeling your smooth skin, tangling my fingers in your hair.”

Elise snaps her head toward him, flustered. He always knew what to say to get her riled up. “Stop it, you frickin’ tease.”

“Never,” he replies, smirking.

Their laughter fills the air, echoing off the cliff rocks. A fragile, comforting silence follows.

“How was the climb?” Nate asks.

“Not too bad. Cold, though.”

“I bet.” His smile falters, just slightly.

Looking him over, he doesn’t seem affected by the chill. It’s his relaxed posture that gives it away, wearing the same dark blue sweater as last year. She'd picked it out for him for Christmas, years ago.

They won’t celebrate Christmas together this year. Haven’t for a while. But they have this single day in late November. When they stand in this exact place, on opposite sides of the lookout, the Golden Hill has become theirs.

“How’s sis?” Nate asks, half-turning, as if tempted to close the distance. He doesn’t.

“Rose is doing okay,” Elise says. “She’s pregnant.”

“Wow.” The happy news changes something in his expression. “I’ll be an uncle.”

“She misses you,” she says flatly. “I miss you.”

“You already said that,” he replies, just as devoid of emotion.

Her mouth parts, then stills.

Nate gestures at the flowers at his feet. “There are more this year.”

Elise simply nods, admiring how the strange blossoms bleed into the different shades of gold, yellow and orange. “It’s getting colder though, they won’t last much longer.”

“I forget what they smell like,” Nate murmurs, his brow furrowing. A breeze sweeps a handful of petals into the air, creating golden rain for a few seconds.

“It’s not a pleasant smell,” Elise says, wrinkling her nose as the scent spreads.

“Then why do you like them so much?”

Her answer comes easily. “They remind me of you. I’ve grown to love them.”

He hesitates. “What were they called again?” His hand drags through his dark hair, something he did when unsure or embarrassed.

Nate forgets a lot. Every year, it seems, he remembers a little less.

“Marigolds,” she starts, her breath hitching, the word lodging somewhere painful in her chest before swallowing it down. “They’re called marigolds.”

The chill of the breeze lingers for a moment.

Elise checks her watch. The minute hand has crept farther than anticipated. Her heart stutters in response, and Nate notices instantly.

“Everything okay?” There’s genuine concern in his tone.

“Why –?” Elise begins, her voice cracking, “I mean, did you –?”

She can’t bring herself to finish that question. Never could. Eyes water, and despite her efforts, warm streaks of tears eventually spill down her cold face.

Nate reaches out instinctively, but stops. His feet remain firmly planted in the ground, as if he’s one of the many marigolds.

“Don’t cry, please, Elly. I love you,” he pleads hoarsely, despair clinging to the back of his throat. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Elise whispers.

She doesn’t know, but the alternative feels worse. She hastily wipes away the tears with the sleeve of her jacket. “God, I’m still such a cry baby.”

“One of the things I loved –“ Nate falters, then corrects himself. “Love. One of the things I love about you.”

His gaze stays fixed on her, heavy with something unspoken. Elise looks up, full of devotion for the man standing a few meters away from her. In that moment, the weight of time settles over her – twelve years of loving Nate, but she hasn't been able to touch him for five.

Five years it's been, since the marigolds first bloomed here, and when the couple began meeting like this. At the same time, people stopped coming to the lookout on Golden Hill. Maybe it’s the pungent smell of the mysterious flowers, that shouldn't be able to thrive in the wild — its scent reminiscent of graveyards. Or perhaps it’s because of what happened here.

The sun is now floating in the open sky. It’s what Elise has been dreading.

“It’s almost time,” she warns Nate, resisting the urge to count the seconds in her head, choosing instead to cherish what little time remains.

“Will you come with me, this time?” Nate asks hopeful, extending his hand, palm open. He looks small all of a sudden.

Elise’s breath catches. She takes one step toward him. Then another. Every instinct in her body – her heart – pull forward, reaching for the warmth that feels like home.

Someday, her resolve might falter. But it won’t today.

Her hands curl into fists, nails biting into the hem of her jacket. “No, I won’t, Nate.”

Nate’s arm falls to his side. When she looks at him again, something vital in him has dimmed. The golden sheen that clung to his skin fades, the light in his eyes dulling. He looks more and more like a memory struggling to hold its shape.

“I’m sorry for asking.” He offers a nostalgic grin. Elise had seen it many times before and eventually learned it was fake, a disguise. “I know I shouldn’t ask.” His voice drops. “I’m just... so damned lonely.” The tight curve at his mouth tugs even wider.

“I am too,” Elise admits, her vision blurring. “Maybe next year?”

He nods, at last moving from his spot in the marigold field. “Well, I’ll be going then.” He pauses, glancing back. “Please take care of Rose for me, she’ll need it.”

Two steps carry him closer to the edge, where the ground falls away into nothingness.

“Of course,” she whispers, her voice trembling under the weight of the promise.

Nate looks back one final time, his eyes seemingly tracing her features – every freckle, every line. “I love you,” he says gently.

“You already said that,” Elise replies, echoing his words from before.

They laugh.

“But I love you too. Always,” she adds quickly.

Before Nate takes the last step, Elise snaps a mental picture of the man she cherishes. The dark blue eyes, how perfectly they match his sweater, those cute dimples that appear when he smiles for real. Hopefully it’s enough to carry her through another year.

And then, he’s gone. Vanished.

Elise doesn’t approach the edge. She doesn’t need to. Her grief knows by now there’s no body, no dark blue sweater, no sound of an impact.

There was, once.

Instead, she walks into the field of marigolds, alone. There’s no bare patch of earth left behind, no sign he was ever there. Elise sinks into the centre of the gold. The bitter scent floods her senses, and sap from broken stems prickles her exposed skin. She welcomes the sting it brings. The pain is somehow comforting.

It’s here she allows herself to come apart. Tears darken the petals at her feet – perhaps the last water the marigolds will know before the cold claims them.

When there’s nothing left to give, she rises unsteadily. Eyes closed, Elise listens to the sounds of Golden Hill, trying to trap the moment in her memory.

There’s nothing.

No breeze.

No birds calling.

No Nate.

Only silence.

Elise understands then. She doesn’t prefer the quiet after all.