Chapter 8: A Conversation in the Garden
The following Saturday morning offered a brief respite from the tension. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. Eleanor was out in her small side garden, kneeling on a foam pad as she trimmed the dead leaves off her prize-winning rose bushes. She wore her usual cream-colored blouse and beige pants, her movements precise and mechanical.
Leo watched her from the kitchen window for several minutes, clutching a small gardening trowel his mother had given him. He knew the risk; his father was home, drinking coffee at the kitchen island and keeping a watchful, suspicious eye on him. But Leo refused to let fear dictate his life. He pushed open the screen door, stepped out onto the deck, and walked across the lawn toward Eleanor’s garden beds.
He stopped a few feet away, respecting the invisible boundary line she had established. He didn't speak immediately; he just stood there quietly, watching her work with the shears.
Eleanor didn't look up right away, but she felt his presence. Her shoulders tensed visibly. Finally, she snipped off a thick stem, set her shears down on the soil, and slowly turned her head to look at him through narrowed eyes.
"What do you want, boy?" she asked, her voice cold and dry as autumn leaves. "I told you to stay away from me."
"I know," Leo said softly, his voice remarkably steady for a ten-year-old. "I read your journal from the attic, Grandma—Eleanor. I know about Maya."
Eleanor’s face went completely pale. The gardening shears slipped from her gloved hand, clattering against the loose dirt. For a second, the formidable wall around her cracked, revealing a flash of raw, exposed vulnerability beneath the surface.
"You had no right to go through my things," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage and shock. "That was private. That was my life before..."
"Before I ruined it by being born?" Leo interrupted gently, stepping just one inch closer. "I didn't choose to look like her. I didn't choose to be born after she died. But I'm here, and I'm not a ghost. I’m just trying to live in this house, too."
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Eleanor stared at him, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. She opened her mouth as if to unleash another harsh retort, but the words caught in her throat. She looked at Leo’s eyes—eyes that mirrored the very grief she had spent five years trying to bury alive.
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