
The gravel path
She walked the gravel path most Sundays, feet steady among the loose stones, hands tucked deep in coat pockets, the cold a quiet companion. At the turn by the greenhouse, she slowed, eyes resting on camellias, their blooms the point, even as leaves fluttered in the soft wind. She named the trees without performative ease, a whispered knowledge held like breath, each branch a familiar weight, each leaf a small, remembered shape. The gravel shifted beneath her steps, a measured rhythm fading, soft as the camellias’ quiet bloom, still waiting at the bend.

