Spring moved quietly into summer, and along with the seasons, something in Marc began to shift.
He still visited the Garden of Beauty, still admired the vibrant blooms and the way the light filtered through the trees. But unlike before, he no longer brought a pair of eager hands to pick the prettiest flower. Instead, he carried a small sketchpad, pen, and a pretty old looking pencil.
He sat at the corner of the tree and he began to draw.
At first, the drawings were little more than smudged lines and awkward angles. His roses looked more like blobs, and his leaves had too many veins or sometimes none at all. But Marc didn't mind. He kept at it, page after page, mistake after mistake. Not to impress anyone, not even Ira but simply because he wanted to see the beauty better. Not just to admire it but to understand it.
He began returning to the same spots day after day. A fallen petal on the cobblestone path. A droplet clinging to the edge of a blade of grass. The same butterfly that hovered near a sunflower each morning, delicate wings glittering like glass.
But most of all, he kept returning to the tree, their tree.
It still stood quietly in the corner of the garden, half hidden behind taller blooms and brighter colors. And there, still clinging to a branch like a stubborn memory, was the leaf. Slightly more curled now. Edges browned. But still there. Still alive.
Marc found himself sitting beneath it almost daily. Sometimes he'd just sit and watch it sway gently with the wind. Other times, he would sketch it over and over again each time a little different than the last one. Once under the morning light. Another as dusk approached. Once after the rain, droplets hang from its tip like tears. Each drawing carried a whisper of the moment it was captured, like a frozen breath of time.
One afternoon, the sun hung low and golden, and Marc sat beneath the tree again, his pencil gliding across the page. He was tracing the silhouette of a butterfly wings spread mid-flight when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to.
"Ira," he said, smiling.
She stood behind him for a moment, watching. "Didn't think you'd still be here," she said gently.
Marc closed his sketchpad, patting the spot beside him. "I live here now," he joked.
She sat down, legs folded beneath her. "I wanted to see what you've been up to."
Without a word, he handed her the sketchpad.
She turned the pages slowly. There were dozens of drawings now. Flowers, yes but not perfect ones. Some were wilted. Some caught in the wind. Some with petals missing. Yet each was drawn with care. Real care.
There were sketches of tree bark, water droplets, shadows cast by the sun, and petals caught mid-fall. Every image felt alive. They weren't still drawings. They told quiet, gentle, unspoken stories.
She stopped at one page.
It was "the tree" "their" tree". And on its branch, the single leaf, drawn in gentle pencil lines. No dramatic shading. No need for perfection. Just the truth. The way it bent. The way it clung. The way it lived.
"You didn't pick a single one of them?" Ira asked softly, still staring at the page.
Marc shook his head. "No. I realized… I don't need to take them to admire them. I just need to see them."
He looked out into the garden, where bees danced and the wind played.
"I used to think beauty was meant to be held, owned, displayed," he continued. "But now… I think beauty is meant to be understood. And sometimes, that means letting it stay where it belongs."
Ira handed back the sketchpad with a smile, her eyes reflecting a quiet pride.
"You've grown," she said.
Marc chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "AHAHAHA, you sure sound like my teacher."
"Well," she said, smirking, "I think, maybe I am."
They laughed softly, and for a while, the garden felt like it had stopped moving just for them. The moment hung, full and warm.
The leaf above them swayed in the breeze. It is a lot older now, there's no external action used, it just withered by time. But in its endurance, it had found a new kind of beauty. Not the bright, fleeting kind of petals and blooms, but the lasting kind. The kind that stays long even after the season has passed.
Marc turned to a fresh page.
This time, he didn't draw the leaf.
He began to sketch Ira sitting under the tree, eyes soft, her hair gently lifted by the wind. No grand poses. No fake smiles. Just her. The way she was.
She noticed, but didn't stop him.
"You're drawing me now?" she asked lightly.
He looked up, then back at his page. "I think… I just want to remember you like this."
She didn't say anything after that. She just smiled and rested her head against the trunk of the tree, letting him draw.
Because sometimes, the most beautiful kind of love…
Is one that sees clearly.
And chooses always, to let things live.