Spring Month -

She never did find out who Clara was, or where she went. But sometimes, when the rain falls warm on a cool day, Elara swears she hears a laugh in the garden—not her own, and not Nonna’s. A different laugh. Older. Kinder. The laugh of someone who knew that April is not the liar.

She stayed there until the sun was fully up, until the magic faded into ordinary morning light. But the garden was different. Brighter. Greener. The daffodils that had been tight buds were open, trumpeting gold. spring month

Elara had always thought of April as the liar of the year. March pretended to be spring but kept one foot in winter’s grave. May was all honeyed promises and perfumed blossoms. But April? April couldn’t decide if it wanted to drown you or dazzle you. It was the month of false starts, of muddy boots, of a cold sun that looked warm but bit through your coat anyway. She never did find out who Clara was, or where she went

She was thinking this as she stood in the doorway of her late grandmother’s cottage, watching rain needle the garden. It was the first of April. Fool’s Day, fittingly. She stayed there until the sun was fully

“Today I buried a seed. Not in the ground—in my heart. They say a person cannot love a place more than a person, but they are wrong. This cottage, this valley, this cruel, beautiful April—they are the only things that have never lied to me.”