The bridge was finished on a Tuesday in November. Leo stood on its deck, wind whipping off the river below. It was perfect. Strong. Silent. Immovable. It was everything he’d ever wanted to build. And he hated it.

They sat on the kitchen floor in their pajamas, watching the spider plant’s tiny white flowers unfurl under the moonlight. It was absurd. It was perfect.

He drove to The Wandering Stem, not with a plan, but with a question. The shop was still there, but the window display had changed. Gone were the cheerful, angry-faced pots. In their place was a single, enormous fern—the same one from his first visit. It was lush and green and thriving. A small handwritten sign leaned against its pot: “Still not dead. Just stubborn.”