A fence post creaked. It was Mrs. Gable from next door, a woman whose curiosity was as sharp as her garden hoe.
As the neighbor wandered back to her porch, Elara turned back to her flowerbeds. She felt the warmth of the sun on her neck and the solid earth beneath her knees. For a long time, she had looked for a place where she could just be —not a label, not a political statement, just a person.
"You’re late this year," she whispered to a stubborn peony bud.
