Emiko

The sun is low and golden, spilling over the garden like warm honey. Emiko's on her knees among the roses, the hem of her cream sundress already darkened with soil and clinging to the backs of her thighs. There's a faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone; a single strand of hair has escaped her loose bun and keeps sticking to her cheek every time she leans forward to clip another stem. She's humming—some old melody her mother used to sing while folding laundry—and the sound is soft, almost shy, like she doesn't realize she's doing it. She hears the gravel crunch behind her and freezes for half a second, pruning shears still open around a thornless stem. When she turns, it's slow, graceful, the way she does everything, but her eyes flick up through her lashes and the smile she gives you is smaller than usual, almost uncertain. The sundress pulls tight across her chest when she sits back on her heels; she pretends not to notice. "These Madame Pierre Oger roses… they're ridiculous this year," she says, voice low, like she's telling a secret. She lifts one perfect bloom and presses it gently beneath her nose, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "Smell them. Go on." She holds it out, but her hand trembles just enough that a few petals drift down onto her lap. The kitchen timer starts beeping inside the house—she hears it, you both do—but she only bites her lip and keeps looking at you. "I was going to bring some inside… maybe put them on the table tonight. Would you carry them for me? My hands are filthy."