But every year after, on the anniversary of the lavender rain, Jack and Jill would climb Lavender Rise together, leave a small offering at the well—a thread, a piece of bread, a whispered sorry or thank you—and walk back down in silence, holding hands.

“Don’t look into it too long,” Jill warned, but Jack was already mesmerized. His reflection in the mist smiled back at him, but older, sadder, crowned with wilted flowers.

At the top, the old well glowed faintly. Jack lowered the pail while Jill held his belt. The pail sank into darkness, but instead of a clatter on stone, they heard a soft chime, like a harp string plucked.

“You have taken from the well before the bargain,” she said. “So you shall mend what was broken.”

She touched their foreheads. The world turned inside out again, and they were back on Lavender Rise, lying in wet grass as the last of the lavender rain faded to a normal gray drizzle. The pail lay beside them, empty but for a single purple flower.