A Vine to Train

The rope-maker did not leave. He simply stood, watching the way the late afternoon sun fell across the leaves, the silence of the garden a balm after the rhythmic, percussive work of his trade. She watched him from the shade of the overhanging eaves, her hands still.

“There is a vine that needs training,” she said, her voice as quiet as the rustle of the leaves. “If you have a moment.”

He did not speak, but turned to her and nodded, a single, slow inclination of his head. A small, slow smile touched her lips, and she turned, leading him deeper into the green quiet of her world.