She stabbed the pointed trowel into the icey earth. Then bare hands scooped. Nails chipping. Tears drying on wind-chapped cheeks. 

The old garden hadn’t bloomed since he’d left. Weeds. Just weeds. And silence. 

But, today she’d found his note in the shed, dated March 5th: “Plant the daffodils. Flowers of Renewal.”

Bulbs cradled in trembling palms, she placed them gently, one-by-one. Like tiny prayers whispered into the soil.

Spring would eventually come. 

And maybe – just maybe – hope would rise with the yellow blooms.

She didn’t smile yet. But her hands were in the dirt.

And that was enough for today.