SERAPHINA
The first hour is painfully awkward.
We start by clearing the worst of the weeds, working in tense silence. Every time our hands accidentally brush while reaching for the same plant, I jerk back like I've been burned. He notices, keeps more distance after that.
Conversation is stilted when we attempt it. I ask about which plants can survive Northern winters. He knows more than I expected, rattling off names and growing requirements without hesitation.
"My mother taught me," he says quietly when I comment on his knowledge.
I look up from the weeds I'm pulling, surprised. It's the first personal detail he's ever volunteered about his family.
"She loved gardens." His hands keep working, not meeting my eyes. "Said they were proof that beauty could survive even in the North. Tha
