Chapter 51

Grandma stood up slowly, brushing the loose soil from her knees. "That's enough for these old bones," she said with a gentle grunt. "This sun is warming too fast for my liking."

She stretched, hands on her back, eyes squinting up at the sky. "I think I'll go make something sweet. You still like carrot pie, Joy?"

I blinked, startled. My mouth opened a little but no sound came out. I wasn't sure if I still liked anything.

She smiled anyway, reading my silence like a yes. "Good. I'll call when it's ready. It needs to be eaten warm."

She gave Eli a soft pat on the shoulder. "Keep planting if you want, Elijah. Or talk her ear off. She needs someone quiet who won't make her run."

Eli chuckled, scratching the back of his neck as Grandma turned and walked back toward the house, leaving the screen door creaking behind her.

And then we were alone.

Just me.

Just him.

Just the breeze and the breathing things around us.

I didn't look at him. I didn't move. I stared at the seedling I hadn't planted, watching the dirt settle in the hole like it didn't mind being disturbed.

Eli sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. For a few seconds, he said nothing. Just let the silence hang between us like stretched linen on a line.

Then, gently, he spoke.

"You ever planted something before?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

He nodded, like he expected that.

"I hadn't, either. Not until a few years ago. Never even thought about it, honestly." He picked up another sprout, fingers brushing off its roots. "But it feels good... putting something in the ground and knowing it'll come up better than how it went in."

I still didn't speak, but this time, I glanced at him.

Just a flicker of a look.

He caught it, then looked down at the seedling in his hand again, a faint smile playing on his lips—not smug, not proud. Just there.

"My mom used to say people are like gardens. You ignore them too long, they dry out. You beat them, they rot. But if you talk to them, just enough, and give them a reason to reach up... they bloom."

I blinked. Hard.

"Sorry," he said quickly, almost stumbling over himself. "That was probably... dumb."

"It's not," I said softly, before I even realized the words had left me.

He turned to me, surprised. Not by my voice—but by the fact that I'd chosen to use it.

He didn't grin. He didn't gloat.

He just nodded again, quietly.

"I'm glad," he said.

The wind shifted a little, carrying the smell of freshly turned earth and something sweet starting to bake from inside the house.

Stillness settled again. But this time, it didn't feel so uncomfortable.

And even though I didn't know how to talk about anything else, I stayed.

The smell came first.

Sweet, warm, and just slightly spiced. Carrots, nutmeg, something buttery. It drifted from the kitchen window like a memory someone baked on purpose. Eli closed his eyes for a second, smiling faintly at the scent.

"She's serious about that pie," he said.

I didn't respond, but I inhaled deeper. I hated how much it comforted me.

He pressed the last seedling into the earth and dusted off his hands. His fingers were strong, stained with soil, nails short and clean. He stood and looked over the small rows we'd—he'd—planted, like he was proud of them.

I sat still, arms wrapped loosely around my knees.

He didn't move closer. Just sat beside me, but not too close. Not enough to crowd me. Just near enough that I could hear the weight of his breath settling in his chest.

"You like it here?" he asked after a while.

I shrugged.

"I think she likes having you," he added, glancing toward the house.

"You come here a lot," I said quietly. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," he said, voice soft. "I do."

"Why?"

He hesitated, then leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky.

"Because she's kind," he said simply. "She reminds me of something good. Something old. She doesn't talk too much. Doesn't lie. And the garden keeps me from getting angry."

I turned to look at him. Just a little. Just enough to study the side of his face.

"You get angry a lot?"

He smiled, but there was something tired behind it. "Used to. Not so much now. Working with the ground... makes things quieter inside."

I nodded.

He didn't ask why I was quiet. He didn't ask about the necklace, or the way I flinched when the wind changed, or why I hadn't said more than twenty words since I got here.

And because he didn't ask, I kept talking.

"Do you think it'll grow?" I murmured, eyes still on the soil.

"The garden?"

I nodded.

"I think so," he said. "Maybe not all of it. Some things die. That's just what happens. But some of it will come up. Maybe the best parts."

The screen door creaked open behind us, and Grandma's voice called out.

"Come eat, you two. While it's still warm."

Eli stood first, brushing the dirt from his jeans. He offered me a hand, but didn't say a word when I didn't take it. Just waited until I stood on my own, then walked with me toward the house—silent, steady, soft.

The kitchen was warm—almost too warm. The windows were slightly fogged from the oven, and the scent of fresh carrot pie clung to the air like sugar and memory.

Grandma was already cutting thick slices by the time we walked in. She didn't look at us right away, but I saw the twitch of a smile on her lips.

"There you are," she said. "Thought you two had become vegetables with the rest of them."

Eli let out a quiet laugh. I watched his shoulders relax like her words pulled something loose inside him. He moved to the sink, washed his hands, and dried them on the cloth near the window without being told. Like he belonged here. Like he'd done this a hundred times before.

Grandma placed two plates on the table. One in front of his usual chair, the other at the seat across from him.

"Joy, come sit," she said softly, not making it a command. Just an invitation.

I hesitated only for a second this time.

Then I sat.

The chair didn't squeak. The wood was smooth and familiar. I ran my fingers lightly along the edge of the plate. The pie was golden, still steaming, the crust flaky, the filling dark orange and sweet.

Eli didn't look directly at me, but he smiled across the table as he picked up his fork.

"She always adds ginger," he said. "It surprises you in the middle. Like a little warning and a hug at the same time."

I picked up my fork and took a small bite. He was right. It was sweet—soft—but the ginger kicked in quietly at the end, sharp and warm.

I glanced at him. "It's good," I said.

He blinked. Then smiled, but didn't say anything right away. Like he was scared that if he did, I'd stop talking.

I took another bite.

"You don't talk much," I added, my voice low but steadier than before.

He shrugged. "I don't need to."

"You don't try too hard either."

He looked up then, really looked at me. "Would you want me to?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Good," he said. "I'm not good at pretending."

Something in my chest shifted—just a little. Like a window cracked open.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms. "Why do you really come here?" I asked.

He gave a half-smile. "Told you. The garden. Your grandma. The silence."

I raised a brow. "Not the pie?"

"Oh, the pie too," he said, nodding with mock seriousness. "But the silence... that's rare. Most people are afraid of it."

I stared at him for a moment longer. Then I nodded, slow. "It's loud in silence. You just have to know how to listen."

He held my gaze, and something in his softened.

Grandma sat down with her own plate and gave us both a long, quiet look. Her smile was small but knowing, like she'd planted something long before we knew it would grow.