The door creaked shut behind them—no fanfare, no fuss.
Just three figures stepping into the day, shoulders nearly touching, the silence between them thick with the unspoken.
The morning sun had begun its climb, casting a soft, amber light across the soil. Dew clung to the wild grass, sparkling like tiny secrets.
The distant hum of birdsong filled the space between their footfalls.
Artur pushed the cart with quiet efficiency, its wheels bumping lightly over uneven ground.
Billy walked beside him, gaze flicking once to Mark, who trailed a half-step behind.
There was no need for small talk—not yet. Not when the air still held the weight of memories too fresh to name.
Tools clinked against the wooden side as Artur and Billy got to work.
Billy bent low to secure a row of seedlings, fingers moving with gentle purpose, brushing the rich earth.
Artur knelt at the fence post, driving a nail with practiced rhythm, the echo sharp in the open space.
