The roses in the garden are blooming again. Crimson and white, just as they were the day we were to be wed. For so many years, I could only watch them wither, a silent, painful echo of my own fate. Now, I find I can tend to them. A gentle, focused thought to guide a vine, a whisper of energy to ward off a pest. It is not the same as touching the earth with living hands, but it is a promise kept. A small, growing thing, nurtured by a love that refuses to be forgotten. To care for something, to see it thrive… it feels like a beginning, not a memory.