The garden was quiet. It was late autumn, fifteen years after the hydrangeas had first bloomed in the Magnolia yard. The bushes were dormant now, their stems cut back to protect them from the coming frost. Bella sat on the bench beneath them. The wood was weathered, smooth from years of use, the paint fresh on the trim where she and Marcus had painted it only months before. She held a pen in her hand. On her lap lay a leather-bound journal. It was the last one. The others were archived in the foundation's library, available for anyone to read. This one was private.
The pages were full. The ink was dry. The story was told.
Marcus was inside the house. She could hear the sound of dishes in the sink. The sound of water running. The sound of a life lived. Eleanor was in Chicago, running the
