DEMI
I sink the small hand shovel into the earth with more force than necessary, and the blade hits a knot of stubborn roots buried beneath the flower bed. The vibration travels straight up my wrist. Dirt loosens anyway. Damp clumps tumble over my gardening gloves as I crouch lower beside the narrow patch of soil lining the back of the cottage.
The morning air in Willowridge still carries that cool mountain softness that makes every breath feel cleaner than it should. Birds chatter somewhere beyond the trees. Wind brushes through the old pines bordering the property. The town is painfully peaceful for a place that has just turned my entire life upside down.
I grip the weed at its base and yank hard until the roots come free with a satisfying tear from the soil. Another one gone.
I toss it into the bucket beside me and sit back on my heels for a second, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from my face with the back of my wrist.
