Spring arrived with painful reminders. Cassidy's garden, which Aria now tended alone, burst into bloom exactly as her mother had planned. Each flower a memory. Each herb a lesson. The garden flourished while Aria struggled to accept that the one who had planted it would never see this harvest.
"She planned this," Aria said to Nessa one morning, kneeling among the herbs. "Planted varieties that would bloom in sequence. Prepared the soil for maximum yield. She knew she would not be here to see it, but she planted it anyway."
"That was her gift," Nessa said. "Planting seeds she knew she would not harvest. Teaching lessons she knew would outlast her. Building futures she would not see."
"I do not know how to maintain all of this without her guidance," Aria admitted.
"You do not maintain it as she did," Nessa said. "You maintain it as you do. The garden will change under your care. That is natural. She would expect and welcome that evolution."
