The morning we decided to plant the garden, it felt like more than gardening it felt like planting a new life.
You tied your hair back and wore gloves two sizes too big. I brought seeds and tools and laughter. We chose a corner near the kitchen window where the sun lingered the longest.
We dug through soil that had been untouched for years, pulling out roots and stones and bits of forgotten time. Each hole we dug, each seed we dropped, felt like a promise. That things would grow. That we would stay.
As the sun warmed our backs and dirt stained our hands, we talked about everything about the old house, about the attic letters, about how love doesn't always need grand gestures to grow. Sometimes it just needs patience. And sunlight.
When the last seed was planted, you leaned against me, your cheek resting on my shoulder.
"This is our beginning," you said.
And I knew what you meant.
Not just a garden. Not just a house.
But us. Again and again. In every season. In every chapter.