Late spring had unfurled itself across Harper Valley like a patchwork quilt—rich greens, golden wildflowers, and a sky that held more promise than clouds. The Eliza House grounds were alive with the hum of bees and the voices of children trailing laughter behind them like streamers.
It was June's idea. A letter garden.
Ava had blinked when she first heard it. "A garden… of letters?"
June nodded, her face flushed with excitement and maternal glow. "Not just letters. Memories. Wishes. Hopes. Something we can plant—literally and metaphorically. For our kids. For the people who visit Eliza House. For anyone who needs to be reminded that they're not alone."
Jamie, ever the pragmatic builder, scratched his beard thoughtfully. "So… flowers and paper?"
June laughed. "Yes. But in a way that means something. We'll write letters, seal them in small biodegradable pouches, and bury them beside the seedlings. It's like burying dreams, and watching them grow."
"It's beautiful," Ava whispered, eyes already misting.
Hank put a gentle hand on June's shoulder. "And it's perfect. Just like you."
She leaned into him, resting her hand on the soft swell of her belly. The baby had started to flutter inside her now—gentle taps like the wings of moths. Every one a quiet reminder: I'm here. I'm coming.
The idea took hold quickly. Thomas was the first to draw a sign for the garden—his handwriting uneven, the paint a mess of colors, but his pride impossible to miss.
THE LETTER GARDEN: HOPE GROWS HERE
Ava laminated the sign and planted it at the entrance beside the oak tree.
On the day of the garden's creation, a small crowd gathered—neighbors, students, parents, and friends. Everyone was invited to write a letter. Some were short. Others tear-streaked. One older woman who had lost her husband during the pandemic buried a note that simply read, I'm learning to live again. Thank you for loving me once.
Thomas, with a crayon-smudged envelope, planted his letter first.
Dear Garden,
Please help the baby grow safe. And please give us lots of strawberries. Love, Thomas Harper
Jamie gently knelt beside his son, pressing the soil over the pouch. "Good job, bud."
Hank and June knelt together next. Their hands overlapped in the dirt. June's letter was a quiet one—folded on cream stationery, wrapped in twine.
Dear Little One,
Your heartbeat sounds like music I didn't know I was missing. I used to wonder if I'd ever meet you. Now I talk to you every morning. I dream of the way your fingers will wrap around mine, how your laugh might sound.
You are loved beyond measure.
I don't need a garden to prove that.
But I hope you'll walk here someday, and know it grew with you.
Love,
Mom.
As June tucked the letter into the ground and covered it with soil, she whispered, "Grow with us."
Ava went last. Her letter was smaller, simpler. She didn't share what it said, but Jamie saw the way she held her hand over her heart afterward, and he didn't ask. Some words were meant for the roots, not the air.
After the planting, the group settled into the open field behind Eliza House. There were picnic baskets and lemonade, cupcakes and blankets. June ,seated on a folding chair in the shade, was glowing in a flowing linen dress, her hands resting on her belly as she watched Thomas chase butterflies.
Hank sat beside her, feeding her grapes like a worshipper at a temple. "Comfortable?" he asked.
"Getting kicked from the inside out, but otherwise yes," she smiled. "This is what I always dreamed family would feel like."
Ava and Jamie joined them on the blanket. Jamie had a guitar across his lap and strummed a few chords lazily.
"What are we calling the baby?" Thomas asked suddenly, flopping down between Hank and June with a dandelion crown on his head.
"We don't know yet," June said. "We want to meet them first."
"I think 'Butterfly' is a good name," Thomas said seriously. "Or maybe 'Maple.'"
Hank tried to stifle a laugh. "We'll keep those at the top of the list."
Ava handed June a small paper. "Here," she said softly. "This was Eliza's last letter. I found it again when I was organizing the archive."
June opened it and read:
Dear Hearts,
If you find this letter, it means you've survived something. Heartbreak. Loss. Change. You're still here.
Let that be your answer to doubt: I am still here.
And if you're planting something—whether a garden or a new beginning—know that it matters. Every seed matters. Every letter. Every whisper of hope tucked beneath soil.
Don't be afraid to love again.
Love,
Eliza.
June pressed the letter to her chest, tears shining in her eyes. "She would've loved this."
Jamie strummed a soft chord. "She's part of this."
A hush fell as the group gathered around again, and Ava stood beneath the oak tree, addressing them all.
"Eliza once wrote that stories don't end; they become part of someone else's. Today we added another chapter. A garden that will bloom with your hopes, sorrows, and dreams. May this place always be where stories begin again."
She looked down at Thomas, who clutched June's hand.
"And may those stories always find good soil."
The crowd murmured in agreement. The sun filtered through the trees. Someone cried quietly. Someone else laughed. The kind of moment that settles into your skin, that tucks itself into memory.
That night, as the stars pricked open the sky, June and Hank sat on their porch, hands clasped.
"I'm scared sometimes," she admitted. "What if we lose this?"
Hank didn't answer right away. He kissed the back of her hand. "Then we'll write through the dark. Like Eliza did. Like Ava and Jamie did. Like Thomas already does."
"And the baby?"
He rested his head gently against hers. "The baby will be born into a world of letters and love. And if they're ever afraid—there will always be a garden that remembers for them."
June smiled, blinking back tears. "Then maybe we'll be okay."
"Maybe," he said. "But I'm betting on definitely."