“Are you sure you want me here?”
I studied her.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
She looked down.
“I worked for those people.”
“You also told the truth when it cost you something.”
Her eyes filled.
I touched her shoulder.
“That matters.”
Over the next several months, Erin became one of the people who helped bring Rosebank back to life.
She organized volunteers, contacted local schools, and arranged donations of tools and supplies.
She also brought her mother, Helen, to visit.
Helen used a wheelchair and had spent years living in an apartment without outdoor space.
The first time she entered the greenhouse, she closed her eyes.
“Oh,” she whispered. “I forgot what soil smells like.”
I watched her reach toward a lavender plant.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
Erin stood behind her, smiling through tears.
In that moment, I understood that our little garden was becoming something bigger than a memorial.
It was becoming a place where people could breathe.
The following spring, Rosebank opened its doors for its first community planting day.
Children carried tiny pots.
Older volunteers explained how to loosen roots.
A retired teacher helped label seedlings.
Helen sat beneath a white canopy, showing two teenagers how to propagate roses from cuttings.
Caleb moved from table to table, fixing anything that wobbled.
Erin hurried around with a clipboard, pretending she wasn’t having the happiest day of her life.
I stood outside the greenhouse with a cup of lemonade.
The air smelled of fresh soil and warm grass.
For a moment, I imagined Michael standing beside me.
