Sebastian came downstairs a few minutes later, rumpled and half-asleep, and leaned against the doorframe.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I kept thinking about something Maria told me once. She said, ‘You are not what happened to you. You are what you choose to become.’ I used to think she said that because she wanted me to be strong. Now I think she said it because she wanted me to be free.”
Sebastian crossed the kitchen and stood beside her at the window. They looked out at the garden together — at the marigolds, at the mist, at the light climbing slowly over the water.
“Isabella planted marigolds,” Elena said softly. “She planted them because they turned toward the sun no matter what. Even in bad soil. Even in shade. They just kept turning toward the light.”
Sebastian didn’t say anything. He reached over and took her hand, and they stood together in the quiet kitchen while the morning opened around them like a door finally, mercifully, swinging wide.
On the garden wall, catching the first real warmth of the day, the marigolds leaned toward the sun.
