The trowel bites deep into the cooling earth. Ezra twists the handle, unearthing a stubborn clump of bindweed that has no business thriving this late in October. The garden is a silent sanctuary of grey-green kale and skeletonised bean poles, breathing softly under the autumn mist. He wipes a smudge of grit from his cheek, the soil here feeling heavy and unyielding today.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel path outside the gate. Marlow approaches, his gait a measured trudge that hasn't changed in the seven years since the collapse. The postman leans against the peeling white wood of the fence, his breath blooming in the crisp morning air. He looks at the rows of meticulously tended soil and then back at Ezra.
'Working that heavy soil again, Ezra?' Marlow asks, his voice like dry leaves. He doesn't wait for an answer, his gaze dropping to the worn strap of his bag. He reaches for a package addressed to a woman named Calla Wren—a soil-smudged seed catalogue that Ezra has never seen before. Marlow's hand slips into his canvas satchel, his fingers closing around something bulky that shifts against the fabric.
