"We're all amateurs here," Jonah said, settling back down beside us. "Charlie's the expert."
Charlie beamed at being called an expert, then immediately began explaining the intricacies of bulb depth and spacing with the serious air of someone presenting crucial scientific data. I found myself genuinely interested, not just in the gardening but in the way her mind worked, methodical and curious, approaching every new challenge with research and enthusiasm.
"So daffodils go deeper than crocuses because they're bigger," Charlie was explaining, demonstrating with her hands. "And tulips are in the middle. Like a flower sandwich underground."
"A flower sandwich," I repeated, charmed despite myself. "I like that."
"Mom used to call it that." Charlie's expression grew briefly wistful before brightening again. "She started this garden. We're just making it bigger."
The casual mention of her mother, the easy way she included her memory in present activities, made my chest tight. This was what healthy grief looked like. Love that continued beyond loss, memories that brought comfort instead of pain.
"She had good taste," I said gently.
"Yeah, she did." Jonah's voice was warm with affection and only the faintest shadow of sadness. "Sarah always said gardens were about hope. Planting something in the fall and trusting it would bloom in the spring."
Hope. I turned the word over in my mind as I helped Charlie arrange tulip bulbs in neat rows. When was the last time I'd planted something I might not be around to see bloom? When had I last made plans that extended beyond the immediate need to survive?
"Kit, you're thinking too hard again," Charlie observed, patting soil over a particularly promising daffodil bulb. "Your scent gets all tangled when you overthink."
"Sorry," I said automatically, then caught myself. "Actually, no. I'm not sorry for having feelings."
Charlie tilted her head, considering this. "Why would you be sorry for feelings? Feelings are just information."
"Who taught you that?"
"My grief counselor. After Mom died, I had lots of big feelings, and she said they were just my heart trying to tell me important stuff."
The matter-of-fact way she discussed therapy, the complete absence of shame about needing help processing difficult emotions, was yet another small revelation. In my family, seeking help had been seen as weakness. Marcus had actively discouraged it, claiming that a well-matched omega shouldn't need outside support.
"Your grief counselor sounds very smart."
"She is. She helped me understand that being sad about Mom didn't mean I couldn't be happy about other things too." Charlie pressed another bulb into the soil with careful precision. "Like, I can miss her and still be excited about you being here."
The simple wisdom of it hit me like a gentle blow. You could hold multiple truths at the same time. You could grieve what you'd lost while celebrating what you'd found.
"Charlie," Jonah said quietly, "maybe Kit doesn't want to hear about..."
"It's okay," I said quickly. "Really. I... I think I needed to hear it."
Jonah's eyes met mine over Charlie's bent head, understanding passing between us. He saw what I was processing, the way his daughter's innocent wisdom was helping me untangle knots I'd been carrying for months. The knowing look he gave me was gentle but intense, like he was seeing straight through to my heart.
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the soft thud of soil being turned, Charlie's occasional observations about optimal bulb placement, and the distant call of birds settling into their morning routines. The repetitive nature of the work was soothing, meditative in a way I hadn't expected. I found myself hyperaware of Jonah beside me, the way his hands moved with quiet competence, the warm sound of his laugh when Charlie made one of her scientific pronouncements.
"Ladies!" Micah's voice called from Jonah's kitchen window, making us all look up in surprise. He was leaning out with a plate of what looked like fresh muffins and a steaming mug. "Thought you might need some fuel for all that hard work, so I decided to drop by with a surprise."
"Micah makes the best blueberry muffins," Charlie announced, immediately abandoning her bulb placement to race toward the house.
"She's not wrong," Jonah said with a fond smile, watching his daughter's eager retreat. "He's been perfecting that recipe for years."
The simple domesticity of it, Micah looking out for us while we worked, made something warm settle in my chest. Like this was how mornings were supposed to go: surrounded by people who cared enough to notice when you might need coffee and carbohydrates.
"Kit?" Charlie said eventually. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Are you planning to stay? In Hollow Haven, I mean. For real?"
The question I'd been avoiding, asked with the directness only children could manage. I looked around the garden at the neat rows of buried hope, at Jonah's patient hands teaching his daughter to tend growing things, at the house that was beginning to feel more like home than anywhere I'd lived in years.