Hours had passed in the gardens.
Jack knew this with the same certainty he knew how to breathe.
His internal sense of time passage was too well-developed from years of combat to be fooled by simple environmental manipulation.
The sun remained fixed in the same position overhead, afternoon light unchanging despite what should have been a gradual shift toward evening.
But knowing and accepting were different things.
He sat on a stone bench near the fountain, Annabelle beside him with her sketchbook open across her lap.
Her pencil moved across the paper with soft strokes, creating an image of the gardens that captured their familiar beauty with the artistic skill Jack had always envied but could never replicate.
"You've gotten better," Jack observed, watching her work. The drawing was detailed, each flower rendered with care that showed genuine love for her craft.
