The next morning, you stood by the window, barefoot and tangled in the sunlight. I brought you tea in the mug you loved the one with a chipped rim and blue flowers. You held it with both hands, your fingers warming around it, and looked at me with the kind of expression that could still stop time.
"I had a dream," you said quietly, eyes still on the garden. "That everything we've grown here, all of it the roses, the wild herbs, even the soil was following us wherever we went."
I walked over, wrapping my arms around you from behind, and rested my chin on your shoulder. "Then maybe that's the truth," I whispered. "Maybe we carry our garden in us."
You turned to face me, and for a long time, we simply looked at each other, our hearts blooming with unspoken truths. That morning felt like a seed not just of something new, but of something eternal. You were my garden, and I was yours. The roots had already gone too deep to ever be undone.