"There's a difference?"
"Yes." I stand, suddenly restless. "Explaining is about the past—justifying decisions already made. Including is about the future. Letting me be part of what comes next."
He considers this. "And you want to be part of it? Even knowing what it might involve?"
"I don't have a choice." I move toward the window, looking out at the guards patrolling the grounds. "This is my life now, whether I want it or not. I can hide from it, or I can face it. I'm tired of hiding."
Silence behind me. Then his voice, quieter than before.
"You're not what I expected."
I turn. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Fear. Tears. The woman I knew two years ago might have—" He stops, shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. You're not her anymore."
"No," I agree. "I'm not."
I'm not sure who I am now. But I'm starting to find out.
***
The greenhouse is cold when I return to it, the morning chill seeping through the cracked glass. I should have brought a coat. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and get to work.
Yesterday I assessed. Today I act.
I start with the dead things—pulling withered plants from their pots, clearing debris from the aisles, making space. The work is physical, satisfying in a way that studying never was. My hands get dirty. My muscles ache. I can see the progress I'm making, measured in the growing pile of detritus by the door.
The fern I noticed yesterday is definitely alive—struggling, but alive. I move it to a spot where more light comes through the grimy glass. Find a watering can, rusted but functional, and give it a drink.
"You and me both," I murmur to it. "Surviving despite everything."
The fern doesn't answer. I didn't expect it to. But talking feels better than silence.
I work my way down the center aisle, sorting through the wreckage of Misha's mother's garden. Most of it is beyond saving—decades of neglect have taken their toll. But here and there I find signs of life. A succulent that's somehow held on. Bulbs that might bloom if they're replanted properly. Seeds scattered from plants long dead, waiting in the soil for someone to give them a chance.
I'm elbow-deep in a pot of dead roses when my fingers hit something that isn't soil.
Metal. A small box, buried in the dirt.
I pull it out carefully, brushing away the debris. It's a tin—decorative, old-fashioned, the kind that might have held biscuits or tea a century ago. The lid is rusted but not sealed. I pry it open.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed cloth, is a journal.
The leather cover is cracked with age, the pages swollen from humidity. I open it carefully, afraid it might fall apart in my hands.
The writing inside is in Russian—elegant cursive I can't read. But there are sketches too. Flowers, plants, garden layouts. And on the inside cover, an inscription in English:
For my garden, my sanctuary, my hope.—Maria Kashkin, 2007
Maria. Misha's mother.
I close the journal gently, my heart beating faster. This was hers. This greenhouse was hers. And somehow, buried in the dirt, she left a piece of herself behind.
I should give this to Misha. It belongs to him, to his family.
But I don't move to leave. Instead, I sit on the wrought-iron bench, the journal in my lap, and think about the woman who used to tend this space. Who planted and watered and nurtured, who found sanctuary here among growing things.
Who died violently, if Mrs. Novak's careful silences are any indication. Who left behind three children and a garden that withered without her.
