The garden in April was exactly what Mrs. Calloway had promised.
Light through the walls. Something white coming up along the far border that nobody had planted recently — the garden's own decision, arrived at over years. The specific smell of turned earth and early flowers and a morning that had committed to being clear.
Nineteen people.
Every one of them present in the specific way that people were present when they had chosen to be there rather than obligated to be. No performance in it. Just — people in a garden in April who had shown up because something real was happening and they wanted to be near it.
Seren stood at the front of it and looked at the garden and thought: yes. This is right.
He had thought that twice now about this space.
Both times it had been true.
