The hydrangeas bloomed in huge, unruly clusters, the colors shifting from blue to pink depending on the soil. The roses climbed the trellises, their scent drifting through open windows on warm evenings. I planted herbs in the raised beds—basil, thyme, rosemary—and found myself using them in the recipes Mom had written down in her letters.
The kitchen tiles slowly transformed back into a patchwork of our original designs. Some tiles were irretrievable, lost to renovations, but I started painting new ones inspired by the old. It felt like collaborating with Mom across time.
One evening, near the end of summer, I was sitting on the porch swing alone. The sky was doing that thing it did only here, where it seemed to stretch taller, the colors layered like someone had taken a paintbrush and dragged it slowly from horizon to zenith. The air was warm, but a hint of autumn coolness nipped at its edges.
I shifted on the swing, reaching down to adjust one of the cushions. My fingers brushed something rough taped underneath the armrest.
Curious, I fumbled around until I found the edge of an envelope.
My heart kicked up a notch.