I asked how she remembered every plant.
She knelt beside me and brushed soil from her gloves.
« Flowers are better than photographs, Nadia. They don’t only show you what happened. They prove somebody kept caring afterward. »
I understood after she died.
Grandma left me the lake house, along with a handwritten note that said only:
Keep it lived in.
« Flowers are better than photographs, Nadia. »
I took that seriously.
I repaired what broke but never modernized it. The yellow cabinets, her hand-sewn cushions, and even the old pancake griddle stayed exactly where she’d left them.
And every Saturday, I tended the garden.
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