The days are warmer now, the sun climbing higher, lingering longer. The hornbeams cast denser shade, their leaves a vivid green canopy above. Bees hum lazily around clusters of wildflowers, and the chatter of children drifts from somewhere beyond the path.


“You’re wilting,” says Jean. “If you were a proper plant, you’d’ve keeled over by now.”


He adjusts the ivy draped over his shoulder, more to placate her than out of necessity.


“Perfect form,” Jean continues, her tone dry. “Just imagine what you could have done with a little water.”


A couple walks by with a dog, its leash taut as it strains towards a squirrel darting into the undergrowth. The woman glances in his direction, frowns slightly, but says nothing. He stays perfectly still, his gaze fixed ahead as the couple and their dog drift out of sight.


“Remember the weeds?” Jean says suddenly.


Images of that afternoon by the shed surface—the tug of roots resisting his grasp, the satisfaction of clearing the soil of what he thought were weeds.

“You got all of my cosmos,” Jean says, giggling to herself. “Every last one. The weeds, though? Still thriving.”


A faint smile tugs at his lips, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the gravel path.


A sparrow flutters down, pecking at crumbs left by a child’s dropped biscuit. Its feathers are flecked with pale brown, as if brushed with flour. He watches it hop closer, then away, startled by a stroller rattling past.


“You never could tell the difference,” Jean says.


“Still can’t,” he mutters under his breath.


The breeze carries a soft, floral scent, and his chest tightens. He can almost see the cream-colored roses, their delicate petals fluttering in a breeze.

“They need more effort than you do,” Jean teases.


He adjusts the ivy draped across his lap, shifting minutely, a dull throb radiating through his hips, reminding him of how long he’s been sitting.

“Latin names,” she says suddenly, her voice light again. “Go on, tell me one.”


“Rosa something.” He shakes his head, his fingers brushing the plastic pot. A smile almost forms, but he stops it just in time.


“Hopeless. I married a philistine,” she teases. “And I’ll bet you can’t even spell philistine.”


A bird call interrupts them, a sharp whistle that echoes through the park. The sparrows scatter, and he sits motionless once more, letting the warmth of the day settle into his aching limbs.


The path grows busier as the afternoon stretches on, a steady rhythm of footsteps, laughter, and bicycle wheels crunching over gravel. His eyes blur as he stares toward the horizon, a deep heaviness settling in his chest like an anchor.


“You must hate this,” Jean says, her tone softer, almost wistful.


“No,” he murmurs. “Not all of it.”


She doesn’t reply. The leaves above rustle gently, and he adjusts the ivy one last time. The world carries on around him, but his mind lingers in the garden, where Latin names and laughter fill the air.