Every autumn, when the flowers began to fade, she would sit by the window and write letters to the garden. She wrote about the people she missed, the dreams she had outgrown, and the pieces of herself she was still trying to understand. With every word, another flower seemed to bloom around her, curling quietly through her hair as if the garden were answering. No one ever knew where she sent those letters. Perhaps she never sent them at all. But by spring, the pages would be empty again, and she would feel a little lighter.