Clara didn’t notice him at first. She was completely absorbed.
Only when he was a few steps away—stopping at a safe distance—did she look up and watch him.
“Hi, Clara,” Enrico said gently, voice calm. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
I held my breath, watching her.
Her small fingers tightened on the watering can. She hesitated—then nodded once.
“Okay,” she said. “What is it, Uncle Enrico?”
Enrico’s face softened with visible relief.
“I was going through some old things,” he said, “and I found this. I thought you might like it.”
He held out a small children’s gardening set—bright, colorful, unused.
Clara’s eyes widened.
Then she glanced at me, silently asking permission.
I smiled and nodded.
“It’s really for me?” she asked, turning back to Enrico, still unsure.
“Yes,” he said. “All yours.” He paused, careful. “And if you want, I can help you with the flowers.”
Clara bit her lip, thinking.
Then, with surprising courage, she stepped forward and reached for the gift.
“Okay,” she said, serious. “You can help. But you have to do it right.”
Enrico nodded, smiling.
“I promise I’ll do it exactly the way you teach me.”
From where I stood, watching them, warmth spread through my chest.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
It wasn’t trust.
But it was something.
A small connection—real enough to matter.
The sky was darkening by the time I finally convinced Clara to put away her new tools and get ready for dinner. Her cheeks were pink from sun and happiness, and she talked nonstop about each flower she’d shown Enrico, each plant she’d “saved.”
We walked toward the house hand in hand.
Enrico followed behind us, his hands faintly smudged with dirt and his smile… his smile was something I hadn’t seen on his face in years.
He looked relaxed.
Genuinely content.
When we reached the hallway near the bedrooms, Clara stopped abruptly, turning toward him like she’d remembered something important.
