“Listen. Tripp iswonderfulwith plants and customers. We all know this,” Naomi insists. “But this filing leaves much to be desired.”
Levi’s eyes catch mine, relief flooding his expression. “Please tell me you’ve brought help.”
“Just lunch, I’m afraid,” I say softly, offering my most sympathetic smile. “You’re on your own with Naomi’s wrath.”
“Shush, you,” she scoffs playfully, turning to Levi and flipping through the files between them. “All I’m saying is that this system was flawless. I’m just protecting your legacy.”
“Oh, my legacy, huh?” Levi echoes with mock seriousness. “You know, Naomi, it’s okay to just admit you miss me. You don’t need to hide behind Tripp’s filing skills…or lack thereof.”
She rolls her eyes, failing to hide her smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late,” he says, taking a step closer to accept the lunch bag. “Thanks for saving me,” he murmurs.
“Always.” Our fingers brush lightly, warmth trailing up my arm. “Good luck with…whatever this is.”
He sighs dramatically before kissing me on the cheek. “Pray for me.”
I leave them, Levi’s laughter following me back into the shop. Dominic and Elijah remain exactly where I left them, still sneaking not-so-subtle glances toward Tripp, who seems thoroughlyamused by their interest. Watching the three of them, I find myself wondering if I’m witnessing the early stages of Stonevale’s newest, and probably most chaotic, throuple. And at this point? Nothing would surprise me.
“Hayden,” Dominic whispers as I pass, “do you know if Tripp likes martinis?”
I raise an eyebrow, pausing to look back at Tripp, who waves cheerfully. “Somehow, Dominic, I don’t think the drink of choice will matter much.”
Elijah laughs quietly, wrapping his arms around his husband. “I told you he’d judge us.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, reaching for Dominic’s arm and giving it a squeeze. I leave them to their antics, a smile lingering on my lips. It’s a reminder, both amusing and oddly heartwarming, of how fullylifehas woven itself into these precious moments. I pause briefly by the front counter, my gaze settling on a newly framed photo resting prominently near the register. Levi, his brother, and their parents, happy, carefree, and younger. It’s striking how Levi now openly embraces these memories, the ache softened by time and love. I know Irene played a big role in helping them all heal after all these years, compassionately encouraging them to face their grief together rather than avoid the past alone.
The grief isn’t gone, never truly gone, but it’s changed. I can feel it. It’s gentler now, tempered by memories and honest conversations, openly celebrated instead of hidden away like something to be ashamed of. Seeing them become reliable constants in Levi’s life again is a miracle in itself. They continue to show up unannounced, volunteering at the garden regularly or dragging him along to the perfect birding spot nearby. Their fullhearted laughter and charming antics are now a familiar, comforting soundtrack to our days.
I step outside, breathing in deeply, my gaze driftingnaturally toward the garden down the street. Levi is there so often now, guiding volunteers, offering advice, laughing easily. He’s become something of a local leader, shaping the community just as patiently and beautifully as he tends to his flowers. His kindness has inspired those around him, me included, to reach out and connect.
I never imagined feeling so fully integrated. There was a time where this…this fullness and vibrancy felt impossible. But now, my life is tangled with the garden and the town itself.
And with the freckled boy who owns the flower shop.
• • •
Today, sunlight spillsgenerously across the garden, wrapping clusters of eager children whose combined energy could likely power our small town. The gardening class had initially been Irene’s gentle suggestion. A way to help children navigate grief through lessons in renewal and growth. I hesitated at first. My life was always about endings, not beginnings. But between Irene’s insistence and Levi’s gentle encouragement, they wore me down until, finally, I agreed.
Now each Sunday, I’m here, carefully guiding tiny hands in planting seeds, teaching these bright-eyed children about life cycles and what it means to honor loss by nurturing new growth. After all, what better way to embrace the messy vibrancy of mortal life than by seeing the world through the eyes of children? Open, curious, and fully unafraid of life’s complexities.
“Mr. Hayden,” a soft voice interrupts my thoughts. It’s Piper, who recently lost her grandfather and whose eyes hold a vulnerability I recognize deeply. “Will all the plants come back in spring?”
“Most will,” I answer gently, kneeling beside her. “Even after fading away, new life finds a way. These flowers bloom, then eventually fade.” I hand her another pack of wildflower seeds from mypocket. “But they leave seeds behind so something new can grow. We plant for what was, and for what will be.”
She nods thoughtfully, fingers carefully pressing seeds into the soft earth, absorbing this reassurance. Watching her, I realize how comforting it feels to share these simple truths. How fulfilling it is to help someone understand something I spent centuries grappling with alone.
Eventually, the children scatter, their laughter trailing behind them. As I brush dirt from my hands, a peace I never imagined I’d find settles comfortably in my chest.
Irene steps up beside me, gathering stray gardening gloves and seedling wrappers.
“Who knew,” she says, nudging me softly, “that watching you get covered in dirt and bossed around by children would become the highlight of my week?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Certainly not me.”
On my walk home, I find myself passing city hall. It stands tall today, empty and dignified in the morning sun. I’d gone back once more after everything unfolded. No longer for answers or contracts, but out of habit. Closure, even. Old rituals are hard to break, and after a lifetime of returning to that counter, I needed to know what it felt like to walk away. My final visit hadn’t been a dramatic showdown. Instead, three ordinary civil servants sat quietly behind the desk and handed me a folder containing a note penned in Constance’s elegant handwriting:
Hayden,
