Page 43 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"The raccoon disagrees."

Coffee first, be human later. The lights clicked on with a familiar click while I padded barefoot across the kitchen. Morning sunlight poured through the windows, bathing everything in soft gold. Dust floated lazily through the beams. Books covered almost every available surface. Stacks beside the couch. Stacks beneath the coffee table. Stacks balancing somewhat irresponsibly on the windowsill. Someone once told me I owned too many books, we don't speak anymore. The coffee machine sputtered awake. That beautiful sound, better than birds, better than church bells and possibly better than world peace.

I leaned against the counter, mug warming my hands as the first sip chased away whatever remained of the nightmare. Much better, civilisation restored.

Frank climbed onto the fruit bowl. Or you could say I picked him up. Same thing…

"Garden day."

"I know."

"You've been ignoring the roses."

"I've been writing."

"The weeds don't care."

"They should."

"They're weeds..."

Fair point. I carried my coffee to my room, throwing open the wardrobe doors. Gardening required a very specific outfit. Something comfortable, something I wouldn't mind covering in dirt, paint, and coffee. Or all three.

Ten minutes later I reappeared wearing faded denim overalls over an oversized cream sweater, old boots I'd promised myself I'd replace three winters ago, and my favourite straw hat. The hat wasn't necessary. It simply made me feel like someone who knew what she was doing. I absolutely did not. Gerald looked me up and down.

"You look like you're about to host a gardening show."

"Welcome back to Digging with the crazy lady."

Frank pinched the bridge of his tiny ceramic nose.

"Please don't."

"Today we're discussing roses."

"And?"

"And why talking nicely to them definitely helps."

"It doesn't."

"You don't know that."

"I literally do."

I slipped my gardening gloves into my back pocket before reaching for the wicker basket beside the door. Pruning shears. Twine. Small trowel. Plant food. Everything exactly where it belonged. Ready. The garden was waiting. It always was.

I stepped onto the dew-kissed grass, breathing in the crisp morning air. Mist still clung lazily to the flowerbeds, weaving itself between the roses like tiny ghosts reluctant to leave before sunrise. Somewhere in the oak tree beyond the fence, a robin began singing as though he'd personally been hired to announce the morning.

Show off.

I slipped my gloves over my hands before reaching for my pruning shears. The familiar weight settled comfortably into my palm. There was something oddly comforting about routines.

Coffee. Garden. Write. Repeat. Most people meditate. I deadhead roses.

Tomato - Tomahto.

Lily stood near the oldest rose bush; her little watering can clutch against her chest.