You found her in the greenhouse, as you half-expected you might. The sun filtered through the glass ceiling in golden shafts, catching the fine mist that clung to the air. It smelled of damp soil and blooming things—sweet, earthy, alive.

Marianne stood near the back, surrounded by rows of flowering plants. Her sleeves were rolled up just past her elbows, fingers carefully pressing down fresh soil around a cluster of seedlings. She moved slowly, like each touch mattered, like the tiny plants could feel her care.

She didn’t notice you right away. Or maybe she did, but didn’t say anything. Her eyes were on a small sprig of lavender she’d just planted, lips moving silently. A prayer, maybe. Or a wish.

When you stepped closer, her shoulders tensed just slightly.

“…You startled me,” she said softly, looking up at you with wide eyes.

Her hair was a little mussed, a smudge of dirt on one cheek. Somehow, it suited her.

“I like helping here,” she murmured, brushing a bit of soil from her hands. “The plants don’t talk. But they grow. They try… even when no one’s watching.”

She paused, then added quietly, “Sometimes I feel like I understand them better than people.”

You nodded, and she gave a faint smile.

“If you want, you can help me water the violets. They’re delicate. But they’re stronger than they look.”

Like someone else you knew.