—Two Years Later—
The garden is bathed in the last light of evening—a slow, golden spill of sunset that turns everything it touches into something softer, something almost sacred. The light falls across the grass in long amber streaks, catching the edges of leaves, the curve of petals, the quiet movement of the wind through the trees.
Two years.
Two years since Honeybun arrived—since the weight of him first settled into my arms and changed the shape of everything. Time has moved in that quiet, relentless way it always does, leaving behind only the evidence of its passing in small, precious things. The way Honeybun's fingers have grown longer. The way his babbles have begun to form words. The way he runs now instead of crawls, his small legs unsteady but determined, his laughter trailing behind him like a ribbon of light.
