Sara Michaels
“Careful with those, they bruise easily.”
Grandma Eleanor’s voice was gentle but precise as she guided my hand toward a cluster of pale pink roses.
The morning sun had fully settled over the garden, casting a warm glow over everything. It felt peaceful here...quiet in a way that didn’t suffocate, but instead allowed you to think.
“I didn’t realize flowers could be this delicate,” I admitted, adjusting my grip as I carefully clipped the stem the way she had shown me.
“They’re like people,” she replied, her tone calm, almost knowing. “Handle them the wrong way, and they won’t last.”
I glanced at her briefly, catching the meaning beneath her words, but I didn’t push it. Instead, I placed the rose gently into the basket we were filling.
“This garden is beautiful,” I said h
