Ten years had passed since Marc boarded that plane to Europe. The world had changed around him, and so had he. His name had grown, now whispered in art circles with admiration, his works displayed in galleries from Paris to Tokyo. His style remained raw and full of soul, but something in it had matured. Every sketch still bore traces of the garden he once loved, and the girl who taught him how to see the true essence of beauty.
He had kept every promise that he made.
Marc never stopped drawing.
His sketchpad became his journal, each page a memory, a whisper of the life he left behind. But as the years rolled by, a quiet ache settled in him. No matter how far he traveled, no matter how many cities he wandered through, there was always one place he never dared return to.
Until now.
Marc stepped off the train, the air thick with the familiar scent of earth and blooming things. The town was quieter, older maybe, but it still held the echoes of a past he had never forgotten.
Sketchpad in hand, he made his way to the Garden of Beauty.
The same path was still there, cobbled stone, though worn out, but still enduring. Wildflowers had found new places to grow, and the trees had grown taller, more ancient. But one tree stood exactly where he left it, the old tree, still bearing the strength of memories.
And under it, someone was waiting, an exhilarating beauty akin to a goddess.
It was Ira.
She sat cross-legged, sketching.
Marc froze, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. She looked up, as if she had known the exact moment he would arrive. Their eyes met, and in that instant, ten years melted away.
"Hey, long time no see, Marc," she said, smiling just like she did that day.
His throat tightened. "Hey, Ira…Long time no see."
She stood, brushing dirt from her hands. "I thought you would never come back, but you did." she sarcastically said
"I never really left," he replied softly, pulling out his sketchpad. "You were in every drawing."
She took a step closer, studying him with the same depth that once taught him how to see. "The world's heard of Marc, the artist who captured feelings like shadows and light."
He chuckled. "They only ever saw what you helped me see."
She blinked, and he noticed the glint of tears. "I'm proud of you."
They sat beneath the tree, silence falling comfortably between them.
After a while, she asked, "Did you ever forget?"
He shook his head. "Not for a second. I sketched you a thousand times. But nothing ever looked quite like the real thing."
She smiled, looking down. "I never stopped cheering. From far away, like I said."
They talked for hours, about the places he had seen, the lives he'd touched through art, the gallery named after a sketch titled "Loving a Leaf."
Then she told him what she'd done, she stayed in town, opened an art school for children, taught them not how to draw, but how to see.
"You made it beautiful again," he said.
"I just kept watering what we planted."
The sun dipped low, casting a familiar orange hue.
Marc reached into his bag and handed her a fresh sketchpad.
"For you," he said. "Let's draw together this time."
Ira smiled, her eyes warm. "I'd like that."
And there, under the same tree, two artists drew again, not to capture beauty, but to understand it, remember it, and share it.
Together.
Weeks passed since Marc's return, and every day felt like breathing in colors he hadn't seen in years. He thought he had known peace in the solitude of studios across the world, but there was something about sitting beside Ira, beneath the old tree, with the Garden of Beauty swaying in rhythm with the wind, it was a different kind of peace. A fuller one.
They met almost every day after that.
Sometimes, they spoke for hours. Sometimes, not at all. They drew side by side, the quiet between them brimming with understanding. Children from Ira's art school would come running, eager to show their scribbles and strokes, and Marc would kneel to their level, giving each one of them a moment, a smile, a small tip that made their eyes sparkle.
One evening, as golden light filtered through the leaves, Ira turned to him. "Marc," she said slowly, "Have you ever thought about staying?"
He looked at her, eyes searching.
"I mean… really staying," she added. "Not just visiting."
He didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted to the stone path, the way the sunlight caught in the cracks, the way the wind moved through the grass, the echo of her words. Have you ever thought about staying?
He had.
Often.
Every day since he came back.
"I have," he said at last. "But… I don't know if I'm done out there. There's still so much I haven't seen. And yet, when I'm here… it feels like I've already found what I was looking for."
Ira smiled, bittersweet. "Maybe it's not about choosing one or the other."
"What do you mean?"
She looked up at the tree. "Maybe you don't need to stay forever. Or leave forever. Maybe… This place can be your home base. A place to return to. And maybe I can be that too."
His heart beat a little louder. "You'd wait for me?"
"I've waited ten years, Marc. What's a few more in between?" she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "You were always meant to go far. I just want to be part of the story now… not the pause in between chapters."
He reached for her hand, and this time, he didn't let go.
A year passed.
Marc began traveling again, not constantly like before, but with intention. He would spend months abroad, holding workshops, painting murals, attending exhibits, but he always came back. Back to the garden. Back to his home. Back to Ira.
Together, they built something beautiful. An art studio beside the garden, where children and adults alike came to learn, to feel, to see. Marc taught how to draw. Ira taught how to find the story behind every shape, every line, every leaf.
Their love wasn't like fireworks. It was like roots, deep, steady, unseen but essential.
One crisp autumn afternoon, as golden leaves fell around them, Marc gave Ira a new sketch.
It was the old tree, just like always.
But this time, there were two figures beneath it, one sketching, the other watching, smiling.
She looked at him, eyes filled with tears. "What's this one called?"
He smiled. "Growing a Garden."
Because now, it wasn't just about loving a leaf.
It was about building something where beauty could live, and love could grow.