Elias Thorne was a cartographer of ghosts. In his small, sun-drenched studio, surrounded by jars of ink and rolls of vellum, he didn't map coastlines or mountain ranges. He mapped memories. With the precise, patient hand of a master, he charted the emotional geography of his own past: the sweeping plains of a childhood summer, the sharp, treacherous peaks of a first heartbreak, and the vast, quiet sea of loss that had defined his last decade. Each map was a beautiful, monochrome prison, a way to contain feelings that were too big for his own heart. His world was one of precise lines and contained sorrows. Until he met Lena. Lena ran the "Veridian," a small, cluttered greenhouse tucked away on a forgotten side street, a place so bursting with life it seemed to be actively trying to escape its glass confines. While Elias dealt in the permanence of ink on paper, Lena’s medium was transient and alive: the damp scent of soil, the unfurling of a fern, the slow, deliberate bl...