“Mind if I come in?”
She hesitates. Her eyes flick up to meet mine, guarded. Then something in her seems to sag, like the fight’s just not worth it today. Like she’d take anyone over no one.
“Sure.”
The house is warm. Cluttered, cozy, too quiet. It smells like mint tea and potting soil. There’s a half-finished blanket folded over the arm of the sofa, a dog-eared book spine-up on the coffee table, and not a single plant in sight.
I glance around. “What happened to the jungle?”
She drops onto the sofa like her legs have finally given out. “Brought them in during the storm. Thought they’d get ruined.”
“Where are they now?”
“Scattered.” She waves a vague hand. “Back room. Kitchen. Bathroom. I haven’t had the strength to drag them all back out yet.”
“Did anyone help you?”
Her voice is tight. “Sol did a bit.”
Of course he did.
She hesitates like there’s something else she could say. Then doesn’t, so I disappear into the kitchen. There’s a tin of hot chocolate in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. I find a clean saucepan and heat it slowly, keeping my movements quiet, controlled. She doesn’t need more chaos.
When I return with the mugs, she’s curled on her side, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, a different blanket draped across her knees.
“Drink this,” I say. “You’ll feel better.”
She peers up at me. “You’re doing a lot of hovering today.”
“You’re letting me, so I’m taking the win.”
That earns a ghost of a smile.
“Now sit still,” I add, more gently. “I’ve got plant duty.”
“What—no, Finn—there’s a wholesystem, you’ll mess it up?—”
“Show me the notebook.”
She groans. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re out of commission.”
She mutters something under her breath but gestures vaguely toward the shelf. I find the spiral-bound notebook, pages worn soft with use. There are names scrawled in different colours –Mabel, Edgar, Arnold– and watering times, soil notes, even mood observations.
“Doris gave them personalities.”
“Theyhavepersonalities.”
I spend the next hour moving them, one by one. Following her directions, checking the scrawled notes, whispering apologies to the ones I jostle too much. The rain has faded to mist outside, the grey sky just starting to split with silver light. The cottage starts to feel alive again.
When I carry in the last pot –Delilah, a particularly dramatic fern – I find her fast asleep.
Her mouth is parted slightly. Hair a soft halo around her face. One hand curled under her cheek, the other still clutching the edge of the blanket. The empty mug is resting near her ribs.
She looks…small. Not fragile, exactly. Just worn thin by too many days of pretending she’s fine.
I move quietly, sliding the mug away. I adjust the blanket, tuck it around her shoulders, brush a damp strand of hair back from her temple. She doesn’t stir.