Chapter 12: The Garden Awaits

After breakfast, we wandered outside, hands linked, down the stone path to the garden we had slowly begun to restore. The roses had started blooming again, white and blue, like memories made visible. I picked a fallen petal and handed it to you. You pressed it between the pages of your sketchbook, a keepsake of today.

You walked ahead, running your fingers through the soft blooms. I stayed a step behind, watching the way you moved like you belonged in this dreamscape. And in many ways, you did. The garden wasn't just a place anymore. It was our diary.

We sat on the wooden bench beneath the archway of vines, your head on my shoulder, my fingers gently brushing your hair. "Do you think this place will always feel like home?" you asked.

"Wherever you are," I said, "that's where home begins."

And in the quiet rustle of leaves, the garden answered for us yes.