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As he sat in the Clubs' garden, Pierre was reminded of the first time, so many long years ago, that Rachel brought him here. His fingers had been broken and his ribs had been mostly healed, but not quite. He'd been sore. And she had decided to take him somewhere beautiful without an ounce of red in the whole place. It had been safe.
Now it was full of memories. Every pathway echoed what was supposed to be and wasn't, reminded him of what should have been but never would be. Reminded him of his dream of being Rachel's grown-up tree.
But the invariably breathtaking thing about gardens is that, no matter how many times they're destroyed, they always come back, and they're always more beautiful than they were in the first place. He wasn't able to grow up to be a tree, but maybe he could be Her garden.
Now it was full of memories. Every pathway echoed what was supposed to be and wasn't, reminded him of what should have been but never would be. Reminded him of his dream of being Rachel's grown-up tree.
But the invariably breathtaking thing about gardens is that, no matter how many times they're destroyed, they always come back, and they're always more beautiful than they were in the first place. He wasn't able to grow up to be a tree, but maybe he could be Her garden.
