Chapter 3 — The Wanderer’s Routine
Rowan
The morning air was crisp, carrying the mingled scents of freshly baked bread from Goldie’s bakery and dew-soaked cobblestones. Rowan adjusted the strap of his courier bag, bulging with parcels, envelopes, and one precarious box labeled “Handle With Care.” He eyed the dubious packing tape barely holding it together. “Handle With Care,” he muttered, “or not at all, apparently.”
The town was waking up around him. Shop doors creaked open, “Closed” signs flipped to “Open,” and neighbors exchanged greetings over steaming cups of coffee. Rowan loved these moments—the stirring rhythm of the town, alive but unhurried, like the prologue to a story just beginning. He tucked his battered notebook into his bag's side pocket, its fraying edges reflecting his own contradictions: a love for fleeting connections coupled with the stubborn weight of untold stories.
Hopping onto his equally battered bike, Rowan set off on his route. The first stop was Mrs. Cartwright's house. As usual, she met him at the door with her no-nonsense expression.
“About time,” she snapped, her sharp eyes narrowing. “This better not be late.”
“It’s not late,” Rowan replied, grinning as he handed over the package. “In fact, it’s exactly on time, according to the highly scientific principles of Rowan Standard Time.”
She snorted, a flicker of amusement briefly softening her expression. “You’re impossible. You know that?”
“Impossible, but undeniably charming,” he quipped with a theatrical bow. “Enjoy.”
Pedaling away, Rowan allowed himself a small smile. These fleeting interactions, these brief glimpses into other lives, were what he thrived on. They required no permanence, no vulnerability—just a quick wit and an easy smile. Simple. Safe.
His next address made his stomach twist slightly. Bloom Vine.
Flora’s shop was becoming a regular stop on his route, and though he’d never admit it, he didn’t mind. There was something about the place—the faint scent of lavender and eucalyptus, the sunlight spilling through ivy-draped windows—that felt grounding. And then there was Flora herself. Meticulous, serious Flora, with her floral scarves and thoughtful silences. She always looked like she was carefully rearranging the universe one petal at a time. She fascinated him. And frustrated him.
Slowing to a stop outside the shop, Rowan leaned his bike against the railing and retrieved a crisp white envelope from his bag. A faint perfume clung to it—probably a wedding invitation, the kind of thing Flora would handle with her usual grace and precision. For a moment, Rowan considered stepping inside, just to see her reaction when he handed it over. His fingers brushed the mail slot. He lingered, debating, before the memory of her disapproving gaze—the kind that could probably wilt a cactus—nudged him back. Instead, he slid the envelope through the slot and rode off before he could second-guess himself.
The bookshop was next, a cozy little nook with creaky floors and shelves that seemed to groan under the weight of literary treasures. Bells above the door jingled as he walked in.
“Morning, Rowan,” Mr. Dalrymple called out, his voice as warm as the shop’s air. “Got something exciting for me today?”
“Exciting might be a stretch,” Rowan replied, setting a small stack of books on the counter, “but I did see a pigeon nearly fistfight a squirrel earlier. Highlight of my morning.”
Mr. Dalrymple chuckled, his eyes crinkling behind wire-rimmed glasses. “You’ve got a way with words, young man. Ever think of putting them to paper?”
Rowan hesitated, the smile faltering on his lips. “I dabble,” he said finally, a practiced deflection. “Nothing serious.”
“Well,” Mr. Dalrymple said, his tone softening, “if you ever change your mind, this town could use a storyteller like you.”
The words pressed against Rowan’s chest. His mother used to say similar things during their many moves. “You’re a born storyteller,” she’d insist, her voice filled with conviction. “The world’s your stage.” But here he was, delivering packages in a quaint valley town, his grand ambitions reduced to a notebook of half-finished ideas.
Rowan touched the edge of the notebook tucked in his bag, fingers lingering before pulling away. The spark his mother had seen in him felt distant, like embers under ash—still warm, but buried.
He shook off the thought as he approached Goldie’s bakery. The aroma of cinnamon and butter greeted him before the bell above the door even jingled. Goldie turned, her vibrant red hair spilling from her messy bun, and greeted him with her trademark warmth.
“Rowan!” she called, balancing a tray of cookies with one hand. “Perfect timing. Want one?”
“Do I look like I’d say no to cookies?”
“You do have that tortured artist vibe going on,” Goldie teased, handing him one. “Very broody.”
Rowan feigned offense. “Broody? I prefer rakish. Maybe mysterious.”
Goldie rolled her eyes but grinned. “How’s the route today?”
“Uneventful, except for Mrs. Cartwright grumbling at me in what I can only assume was her version of a compliment.”
Goldie laughed, the sound infectiously cheerful. “That’s high praise coming from her. So, stopping by Flora’s later?”
“Already did,” Rowan said, taking a bite of the cookie. “Dropped off an envelope.”
Goldie raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t go in?”
“Didn’t want to interrupt her delicate process of alphabetizing vases or whatever.”
“You’ve got her all wrong,” Goldie said, smirking. “I think she secretly enjoys the chaos.”
“Flora? Enjoy chaos?” Rowan snorted. “I’ll believe that when she starts wearing mismatched socks.”
Goldie winked. “Stranger things have happened. By the way, still helping me with the Valentine’s Day pop-up?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Rowan replied, though the idea of coordinating anything with Flora filled him with equal parts curiosity and apprehension. He gave Goldie a quick salute. “Thanks for the cookie. Catch you later.”
The day passed in a blur of deliveries. A birthday card to a giggling boy, a box of fabric to the seamstress, a bouquet to an elderly couple celebrating their anniversary. Each stop was a snapshot of someone’s life—a fleeting moment Rowan got to witness before moving on. He loved the way his job let him peek into these stories, even if they weren’t his to keep.
By the time he returned to his apartment, the sun was dipping low in the sky, painting the town in hues of gold and amber. Elliot was sprawled on the couch, his guitar balanced on his lap.
“Long day?” Elliot asked without looking up.
“Busy,” Rowan replied, dropping his bag by the door. “But good.”
Elliot’s sharp gray eyes flicked up to meet his. “You’ve been ‘busy’ a lot lately. When’re you actually going to do something with all the stories in your head?”
“Not this again,” Rowan muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Yes, this again,” Elliot said, setting his guitar aside. “You’re wasting your talent delivering packages when you could be—”
“Failing spectacularly? Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“You’re already failing by not trying,” Elliot said, his tone softening but no less firm. “Think about that.”
Rowan didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled his notebook from his bag and flipped it open. The pages, filled with scribbles and half-formed ideas, seemed to challenge him. He stared at them for a moment, Elliot’s words echoing in his head. Finally, he picked up a pen and began to write.
At first, the words came slow, uneven. But then they started flowing, stumbling into something… real. The scratch of the pen, the glide of ink—each movement felt like a stitch mending a torn seam. For the first time in a long while, it felt good.
