Page 35

D amien

The garden was different now—less construction site, more sanctuary.

The archway still stood at the center, its vines fuller, draped in the last blooms of autumn.

The chalkboard sign out front welcomed visitors to the Cole & Shea Center with a swirl of pastel lettering and stick-figure hearts drawn by the neighborhood kids.

Ruby’s laughter floated out from the greenhouse classroom, mixing with the clink of flower buckets and children’s chatter.

I leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching her tuck a daisy behind a little girl’s ear, her hands stained with paint and pollen.

She was in her element—chaotic, radiant, entirely hers.

“Alright, petal pals!” she called. “Clean up and cookies in five!”

They squealed in delight and scampered for napkins. Ruby spotted me, her face lighting up like it always did when she saw me, like I was still surprising her, like I mattered more than I probably deserved. “Hey, doc,” she said, sauntering over. “You here to steal a cookie or a kiss?”

“Both,” I said. “But mostly, I came to say your flower crown from last week still haunts my dreams.”

She grinned, eyes sparkling. “Flattery will get you at least one oatmeal raisin.”

Later, I held open the door to the main center as she stepped inside, dusting glitter from her sleeves. The reception desk had a bowl of lemon balm, and Hazel’s latest knitting project draped over the back chair like a permanent fixture.

I led my afternoon wellness group in the sunroom—five grumpy retirees and two over-caffeinated new moms. We covered breathing exercises and blood pressure basics, and I had to confiscate a Fitbit from Earl for trying to outstep everyone mid-session.

By evening, the center quieted. The lights dimmed to a golden hum, and Ruby and I returned home to our little rented cottage down the street, trailing a scent of lavender, rosemary, and whatever Hazel had baked and secretly slipped into my coat pocket.

The house was cozy, cluttered, and ours.

Dried flowers hung from the ceiling beams. Cookie crumbs dotted the counter like confetti.

A daisy Ruby had pressed months ago still marked her page in the medical botany textbook she never finished.

And on the fridge, a crooked magnet held a napkin sketch of our dream house—one day, maybe.

We curled up on the porch swing as twilight folded in. The wind nudged the chimes, the air thick with cedar and peace. Ruby leaned into me, her hair damp from the evening mist, her eyes watching the stars peek through the clouds.

“We were a mess,” she murmured.

“A beautiful one,” I said. “And I’d make it all over again.”

She reached for my hand, our fingers weaving together like always—messy, imperfect, exactly right.

In the garden they built together, every season was a second chance.