The garden air is calm now. Soft, warm with the weight of afternoon. The sun sits high, but beneath the shade of the old oak tree, the light breaks into quiet fragments, scattered across the grass and stone.
White roses line the edges of the garden—carefully planted, precisely spaced. Their petals catch the sunlight, clean and bright, holding it without excess. The morning dew is gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of earth and something soft blooming in the heat.
The stone path cuts clean lines through the garden, leading toward the house—everything placed exactly where it belongs.
I sit on the couch beneath the shade, leaning back with my eyes closed, relaxed. The cushions are cool against my skin. A book rests in my lap—leather-bound, its pages smooth and well-kept.
I'm not reading it. Not really.
My finger taps lightly against the page. A quiet rhythm. Slow. Easy. The kind that lets a mind drift.
This garden has always been my favorite place.
