The morning of the thirty-first year came with a stillness that I had never felt before. The garden was quiet. Even the song threads seemed muted, their usual hum reduced to a whisper. Julian was beside me in the grove, his breathing slow and steady. I watched him sleep and felt something shift in my chest.
I knew, somehow, that this would be our last year together.
It was not a sad knowing. It was not a fearful knowing. It was simply a knowing, like the way the garden knew when winter was coming. A deep, wordless understanding that the season was changing and that we were part of that change.
Julian woke and looked at me. He did not ask what was wrong. He did not need to. He knew too.
"It is time," he said.
"It is time."
We lay together in the quiet grove, the blooms open above us.
