In the dim light of the early evening, Sarah sat by her window, her eyes tracing the fading outlines of the garden outside. The scent of blooming jasmine wafted through the air, stirring a memory she hadn’t visited in years.

It was a summer long past, the kind where the days stretched endlessly and the heat shimmered off the pavement. She was ten, running through this very garden, her bare feet pattering against the sun-warmed grass. Her laughter echoed around the yard, mingling with the distant hum of bees and the chirping of crickets.

Her father was there, kneeling by the rose bushes, his hands deftly pruning the vibrant blooms. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong, tanned arms. He had a way of working silently, the focused look on his face softening only when he glanced up to catch her eye. She remembered the twinkle in his gaze, the unspoken invitation to join him. She would often drop to her knees beside him, asking a hundred questions about the flowers, the soil, the tiny creatures that lived amongst the petals.