Leroy stood before a patch of soft earth where new shoots had begun to sprout. The early morning sky stretched out in pale gray, the sun still hiding behind the hills.
He knelt there, silent. After destroying the hydrangeas his wife had so carefully nurtured, no apology felt worthy. Words would be useless. So he planted new flowers in their place—not to replace what was lost, but to show her that he'd tried. That he cared.
His eyes lingered on the tiny green leaves, trembling in the breeze. There was something humbling, almost sacred, about coaxing life out of the soil. That quiet joy of nurturing something was a novel feeling. It made his guilt cut deeper. He had stolen that joy from her.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
