It comes without her calling it—
not in the work,
nor in the turning of the soil,
but in the pause between.

Her hand rests lightly on the earth,
fingers half-curled,
as though they’ve forgotten
what they meant to do.

There is a sound—
perhaps only the wind
moving through what remains
of late leaves.

She does not look up.

There is something in the stillness now
she did not notice before—
not absence,
but a kind of waiting
that asks for nothing.

And in it,
quiet as breath against the morning,
a thought returns—

not sharp,
not insistent,
but familiar
in the way certain names remain
long after they are no longer spoken.

She does not follow it far.

Only lets it pass through,
like light between branches,
touching briefly
what it does not keep.

Her hand moves again.

The work resumes.

But something,
just beneath it,
lingers.