Chapter 37
AMY
The rooftop greenhouse isn’t much in size, but it’s magic.
When I swing open the heavy steel door, the air hits us warm and humid, tangy with earth and leaf.
Beams of sunlight filter through cracked panes, dappling dust motes across rows of green.
I can smell basil, mint, young shoots of rosemary, and the faint sweet tang of jasmine daring to push through the glass.
Darun follows behind me, boots clinking on the metal grating. He looks wary—like he’s expecting something to combust. I wave away his hesitation. “It’s safe up here.”
He breathes in. The air slides into his throat. He inhales again. “It’s beautiful.” He steps forward, glancing at seedlings stretching toward sunlight.
I point out a plot teak box to the side. “Here—let’s plant some herbs. Soil’s ready.” I hand him a small packet of seed capsules. He fingers them awkwardly, like they’re unfamiliar weapons. “Basil, sage, thyme. Mostly for scent and flavor. They survive heat if you tend to them.”
He nods, expression serious. I bring him a trowel and a container of rich compost. The soil smells dark and alive. He sinks the trowel in. The dirt is soft, yielding. He looks amazed. I kneel beside him, hands in the soil. He’s silent for a moment. I wait.
Then he murmurs, “Why does this matter so much—I mean, after everything.”
I pause, rest my hand on the bed of turned earth.
The wind stirs the glass rafters. “Because some things grow even after fire. Even in places scorched, there’s seed in soil waiting for rain.
” My voice is soft, but steady. “You can’t just fight forever.
You have to build. Heal. Let life push through cracks. ”
He nods slowly. He takes basil seeds in his fingers, spreads them carefully in a furrow. I water gently. The droplets glint, fall into the furrow, dust rising faintly. The smell is almost electric—green, alive.
We plant row after row. His hands get dirty; there’s soil under his nails. He glances at me and smiles—awkward, shy. I smile back. There’s a light between us now. Not the flash of war, but slow, steady.
Once a row is planted, he stands and stretches. “So… we don’t just dig through war stories. We plant stories too?” he says, almost a question.
I nod, wipe dirt from my palm on my jeans. “We plant things people can touch. Smell. Taste. Remind them that memory isn’t all pain.”
He leans on the railing, looking out at the city skyline behind plants and rails and steel. The air hums. He breathes in the city smell—concrete, ozone, distant traffic.
We wander among herb beds, talking low. I tell him what it’s like volunteering here—how people come up after work, water plants, read among the greenery. Escape. Community. Seeds meant for more than survival.
He listens, then speaks softly: “I still dream of war nights. The explosions, the darkness, the screams.” His voice cracks. He tucks his coat around himself. “I can’t unsee it.”
I sit on a bench. I pat the plank next to me. He sits. The sun warms glass above us. He leans toward me. I turn, reach for him. He glances down, then meets my gaze. “I’m afraid—after I speak, silence might follow again.” He confesses it. Not as weakness, but as truth.
I slide closer. “You’ll never be alone in that. I’ll be there. Her presence here matters. Our voice matters. Silence can’t swallow all.” My fingers brush his arm. The wind lifts his hair; I feel the warmth of him in that space.
He leans his head back. “I like being here, with you.” He half-smiles. “Without weapons, without alerts, just… this.”
We walk back through the greenery, hand in hand. The rooftop door opens to sky. The city noise rises.
On the street below, lights flicker. We descend the stairs. I stay close. He glances at me, worries in his eyes.
At a corner shop, he stops and says, “Wait—one thing.” He enters. I follow. Inside, there’s jars of candy, small toys, humming display cases. Libra’s favorite candy stand from memory. He scans jars. Picks a flower-shaped lollipop—pink swirl.
He brings it to the counter. His coat pocket fumbles for his currency card. He swipes. Machine makes a beep. Error. He swipes again. The light blinks red. The clerk watches, eyebrows raised.
I step forward, mock stern: “You’re about to embarrass yourself in front of your daughter’s favorite candy shop.” The clerk glances between us, smiles politely.
He mutters into the card reader. It beeps again. He leans in. I roll my eyes.
Finally it works—beeps green. The clerk hands him the candy. He tucks it into a little bag. He holds it out to me like handing me an offering. “For her.”
I grin. “You did good.”
As we walk home, the night air smells of rain on concrete and distant food stalls. Darun tucks the candy in my bag. He stumbles slightly, and I catch his elbow.
I glance at him. He looks at me—as though wondering if this is real. I squeeze his hand. “It is.”
We walk into the apartment. He sets the candy on the shelf. We close the doors. Quiet. Safe.
I wind in behind him, wrap arms around his waist. He presses me close.
He murmurs, “Thank you for growing things with me.”
My lips to his shoulder: “Thank you for planting hope.”
We stand in quiet. The secret still lies unspoken. But in our home, life grows anyway. Always. And in that softness, in the green scent, in the rustle of leaves, perhaps we’ve begun something stronger than silence.