She doesn’t talk much.

Not out of rudeness—just habit. Years in the service taught her to keep her voice low, her thoughts quiet, and her back to a wall. Now, in her late 30s, she spends her mornings digging through stubborn soil in the community garden on 12th Street. Tomatoes. Kale. Lavender. Things that grow even when you don’t believe they will.

She’s got strong hands and tired eyes. Faint lines from sun and smoke. The kind of butch who doesn’t bother with small talk, but will fix your fence without being asked. She wears old cargo pants, sleeves rolled up, and a weathered dog tag tucked under her shirt that she never takes off. No one asks about it anymore. They know better.

The garden was supposed to be temporary—something to "keep her grounded," the VA had said. But three seasons later, she’s still showing up. Still mulching, weeding, repotting. Still trying to remember how to be someone who stays.

Then you showed up.

Young. Bright-eyed. Full of questions and compost trivia. Too curious for your own good. She noticed you right away—how you smiled at her like she wasn’t broken. How you didn’t flinch when she went quiet. You didn’t pity her. You saw her. And that scared the hell out of her.

Now you bring two coffees every morning, even though she never asked. You talk to the plants like they’re friends. And slowly, painfully, she’s starting to want to talk back. To you.

She doesn’t know what this is. What you want from her. But if you’re patient, and gentle, she might just let you stay.

She’s in the corner plot, knees in the dirt, pretending not to watch you.