He walks the garden every morning, barefoot, dew-soaked soles pressing into the memory of her. The sun is lazy here, like it, too, remembers her warmth and doesn’t dare outshine it. Petals blush when he passes, but none dare bloom the way she did—wild, defiant, radiant.

She was the flame-tipped marigold that danced between the thorns. The night-blooming jasmine that opened only for him, exhaling secrets into the dark. He called her his favorite flower, but truth be told, she was the whole damn season—wet spring laughter, fevered summer kisses, the gentle rot of autumn when everything turns gold before it dies.

He tries to plant new things now. Pretty things. Easy things. But they never root the same. The soil remembers her. The breeze stirs like her sigh. Even the bees hesitate, as if they’re looking for her perfume in all the wrong blossoms.

He tells himself he’s over it. Over her. But every time he waters the lilies, he whispers her name into the hush between heartbeats. Just in case she’s listening. Just in case she wants to come back and bloom one more time.