The Garden Between Us
The wind was gentler that afternoon. Leaves danced in spirals as Maya walked toward the museum, her fingers gripping the sunflower sketch in her pocket like it could steady her heartbeat.
She had almost turned back twice.
The last time she followed someone's words, she'd ended up shattered. But this—this felt different. Not safer, but softer.
The garden behind the museum was quiet, tucked away from the city's usual rhythm. Worn stone benches circled a bed of wildflowers, and at its center stood a lone sunflower—real, tall, golden, swaying gently in the breeze like it knew she was coming.
Maya spotted him before he saw her.
Luca stood near the bench, a sketchbook in his hands. Her sketchbook.
She froze.
He turned, eyes widening with surprise, then softening into that calm, familiar look. "You came."
Maya nodded.
He stepped closer, holding out the sketchbook like something sacred. "I didn't mean to take it. That day—I was supposed to give it back. I just… I wasn't ready."
She tilted her head, confused.
"I lost someone," he said. "My sister. Two years ago."
Maya blinked.
"She was an artist too. Drew people when she couldn't speak the words. She… looked like you. Not just in your face. In your stillness."
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but tender.
"She used to sit in this garden. Said it was the only place where things didn't feel broken."
Maya slowly pulled the sunflower sketch from her pocket and handed it to him.
Luca stared at it for a long moment. "She would've loved this."
Then, for the first time, Maya whispered something. Just one word.
"I'm… sorry."
Luca's eyes flicked up, stunned. "You spoke."
She nodded, tears welling. "Not for a while. Not… like this."
He sat beside her on the bench, careful not to break the fragile quiet between them.
"You don't have to explain anything," he said gently. "Your silence says more than most people's words."
They sat together, not talking much. Just breathing. Just being.
But as the sun dipped lower, casting golden shadows through the petals of that lone sunflower, Maya felt something shift.
Not healed. Not whole.
But hopeful.