The sun dipped low, casting amber streaks across the garden as Clara knelt to inspect a cluster of lavender. The air hummed with the buzz of bees and the distant strum of a guitar, its notes drifting from the far end of the property. She frowned at the wilted petals, fingers brushing the stems as if coaxing them back to life. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see a man leaning against the gate, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. His guitar case rested at his feet, and he held a single red rose, its edges already curling from the heat.
“You’re not supposed to water them after dusk,” he said, voice rough with smoke and laughter. “They’ll droop like sad little ghosts.”
Clara straightened, brushing dirt from her knees. “I wasn’t watering them. I was… assessing them.”
He stepped closer, the rose tilting toward her. “Assessing what? The odds of survival?”
“The quality of the soil,” she said, though the real answer lingered unspoken: *the way you’re standing there like you own this place*.
He grinned, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “I don’t own it. But I play here sometimes. For the birds.”
She glanced at the guitar case. “You’re a musician?”
“A failed one,” he said, but the way he said it made it sound like a badge of honor. “Still, the birds listen. They don’t care if I’m good or not.”
Clara hesitated, then extended her hand. “I’m Clara.”
He took it, his palm calloused and warm. “Leo.”
The moment stretched, heavy with something unnameable. A breeze stirred the lavender, carrying the scent of honey and earth. Leo tilted his head toward the sky. “Storm’s coming. You’ll want to get inside.”
She followed his gaze. The horizon had darkened, the last light of day bleeding into a bruise of clouds. “I should finish what I started,” she said, though her feet had already begun to move toward the house.
Leo lingered, his shadow merging with hers. “Tomorrow?”
Clara didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The word *tomorrow* felt like a promise she wasn’t ready to make.
—
The storm arrived with a fury that rattled the windows. Clara sat at the kitchen table, her notebook open but untouched, the pages blank except for a single line: *The last light of summer*. Rain lashed the glass, and the air smelled of wet earth and ozone. She heard the door creak open behind her and didn’t turn around.
“You’re still here,” she said.
Leo leaned against the doorway, his guitar case slung over his shoulder. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”
She finally looked at him. His hair was damp, his shirt clinging to his chest. “I didn’t think you’d stay.”
He stepped closer, the scent of rain and something citrusy surrounding him. “I like the way the garden looks when it’s wet. Like it’s holding its breath.”
Clara tilted her head. “You’re odd.”
“And you’re stubborn,” he said, sitting across from her. “But I like that too.”
She studied him, the way his fingers tapped a rhythm on the table. “Why are you here, Leo?”
He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m waiting for something.”
“Like what?”
He met her gaze, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed to pause. “A reason to stay.”
Clara’s chest tightened. She wanted to ask him if she was that reason, but the words stuck. Instead, she reached for her notebook and tore out the page with the single line. “Take it,” she said, holding it out.
Leo took it, his fingers brushing hers. “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
She looked down at her hands. “I have to.”
“Then why did you stay tonight?”
The question hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Clara didn’t have an answer. She hadn’t known why she’d stayed either.
The rain slowed to a drizzle, and the first stars pierced the sky. Leo stood, tucking the page into his pocket. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, but there was no certainty in his voice this time.
Clara watched him go, her heart a tangled mess of hope and fear. The storm had passed, but something inside her remained unsettled, like the last light of summer refusing to fade.
—
The next morning, Clara found a single red rose on her doorstep, its petals still damp from the rain. She cradled it in her hands, feeling the weight of it—both literal and emotional. The note was tucked beneath the stem, scrawled in messy handwriting: *The last light doesn’t have to fade*.
She read it three times, then pressed the flower to her chest. The garden was quiet, the air still heavy with the scent of rain. She walked to the edge of the property, where the trees stood like sentinels, their leaves glistening.
Leo was already there, sitting on a bench beneath the oldest oak. He looked up when she approached, his guitar resting against his knee. “You came,” he said, but there was no surprise in his voice.
Clara sat beside him, the bench creaking under her weight. “I didn’t know if I should.”
He strummed a few notes, the sound soft and melodic. “You’re here now.”
She glanced at him, studying the way the morning light caught in his hair. “What if I don’t want to leave?”
Leo stopped playing. The silence between them was thick, filled with unspoken possibilities. “Then don’t,” he said, his voice steady. “Stay.”
Clara’s breath hitched. She wanted to say yes, but the words felt too big, too loud. Instead, she reached for his hand, her fingers trembling as they entwined with his.
The garden seemed to hold its breath, the world pausing for a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting. Clara didn’t know what came next—only that she wasn’t ready to let go of this.
The last light of summer had arrived, and for once, she didn’t want it to fade.
—
In the weeks that followed, the garden thrived. Clara stayed, her hands buried in the soil as she tended to the plants, their colors blooming brighter than before. Leo played in the evenings, his music weaving through the air like a promise.
They didn’t talk about the future, not really. There was no need. The days stretched long and golden, filled with quiet moments and shared laughter. Clara learned to listen to the rhythm of his songs, the way they mirrored the heartbeat of the garden. Leo, in turn, found a new kind of music in the rustle of leaves and the hum of bees.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Clara stood at the edge of the property, her hands resting on the gate. Leo joined her, his guitar case at his feet. “You’re thinking about leaving again,” he said, not as a question but a statement.
She turned to him, her eyes searching his. “I don’t want to. But I have to. There’s a job in the city, a chance to study rare plants. It’s something I’ve wanted for years.”
Leo’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “And what about us?”
Clara hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. “I don’t know. But I can’t ignore this opportunity.”
He nodded, his expression unreadable. “Then go. But don’t forget this place. And don’t forget me.”
She reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I won’t.”
The next morning, Clara packed her belongings, the garden a bittersweet farewell. As she stepped onto the road, she glanced back one last time. Leo was there, standing beneath the oak, his guitar in hand. He raised a hand in a silent goodbye, and Clara felt a pang in her chest.
The city was different—brighter, louder, full of possibilities. But the garden lingered in her mind, its colors and sounds etched into her memory. She wrote to Leo often, sharing stories of the plants she studied and the new places she explored. He replied with songs and sketches of the garden, each one a reminder of where she’d come from.
Months passed, and Clara found herself dreaming of the garden more often. The city was beautiful, but it lacked the quiet magic of the place where she’d first met Leo. One day, she made a decision—she would return.
When she arrived, the garden was as she remembered it, vibrant and full of life. Leo was there, his guitar resting against a tree as he played a familiar tune. She stood at the edge, watching him, and for a moment, time seemed to pause.
Leo looked up, his eyes lighting up with a mix of surprise and joy. “You’re back,” he said, his voice filled with emotion.
Clara stepped forward, her heart racing. “I’m back.”
The garden welcomed them both, its colors and sounds a testament to the journey they’d taken. And as the sun set behind the trees, casting a golden glow over the property, Clara knew she’d found what she was looking for—not just in the garden, but in Leo.
—
In the end, the garden became their home. Clara continued her work, but now she had a partner in every step of the way. Leo’s music filled the air, a constant reminder of the love they’d built. They didn’t have all the answers, but they didn’t need to. The garden was enough, a place where their story could grow and flourish.
And as the seasons changed, so did their love—stronger, deeper, and more vivid than ever before.
