The next morning I ate my breakfast before setting out towards the garden, a handful of mismatched keys in my pockets. Hopefully, I could save at least one, tiny violet from the winter chill setting in. I knew it was a long shot, since it was late in the season and the garden hadn’t been touched in years, but I was hoping for a small miracle. 

As I passed, I noticed the ladder that had been propped up against the house the day before was put away, the ivy pulled from the chimney, just as he said he was doing. There was no sign of him again though. Not that I was looking.

A short walk brought me to the wrought iron gate of the garden, and I buried my hands in my pockets to search for a key to match the padlock securing it shut. I tested keys for a while, a number of them fitting ill or not twisting in the hole. Any that didn’t work were returned to my pocket. 

Finally I found a key that slid into the lock smoothly. When I turned it, the mechanics clicked with success, but as I tried to open the lock, it wouldn’t budge. The rust had gotten to it more severely than I thought, and the lock simply refused to give. 

It took me a moment to come up with an alternative plan, leaving the gate and returning to the backyard of the house where the tool shed sat. I was curious to know whether or not my grandparents owned a bolt cutter. 

Just as I was about to enter the tool shed, Jack emerged, a push lawn mower in hand.

“Good morning, Violet.” 

His sudden appearance was strange enough, but hearing him say my name was even stranger. All I could manage was surprise.

“When did you get here?” 

“Just now,” he answered, putting the mower aside and opening the door to the shed again, holding it for me as I entered. 

I stepped past him, curiosity brewing. “Do you have a car?” I asked as I glanced around the shed, attempting to subtly interrogate him.

“No. Are you looking for something?” The way he asked his own question to avoid elaborating on his answer seemed almost too convenient.

I searched for a bit longer before admitting defeat. “A bolt cutter.” 

“Planning a breaking and entering?” He inquired teasingly, following behind me and shifting a few things out of the way to collect the tool of my request. 

I watched him stretch over a shelf to where the bolt cutter hung on the wall. “Nothing nearly that exciting,” I said, taking the heavy metal cutters as he handed it over to me. I chose to purposely omit the details just as he had. I could be annoyingly evasive as well.

“Do you know how to use that?” he asked, holding the wooden door for me again as we left the shed together.

I scoffed a little. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” How hard could it be? Besides, what kind of help would he give? He was probably weaker than me, with his spindly, tree branch arms. “Thanks,” I added, the words intending to dismiss myself, but with my retreat I heard his boots shifting the gravel walkway as he followed me. 

I slowed my pace, glancing over my shoulder at him. “What are you doing?” 

“Helping.” He gave me an innocent look.

I laughed, but the tone of it was clearly sarcastic. “I don’t need any help.” 

He shrugged. “Ok, well, either way.” His response implied he was doubtful, but his tone and expression never showed anything besides sincerity. 

He was being ridiculously frustrating, but it felt inappropriate to get angry because of his politeness. I kept walking, deciding to let him follow if he really wanted to so badly. 

We trudged together in a silence again, a trek that was awkward for me but seemed perfectly comfortable for him. I was relieved to get there, ready to prove I could break the lock open on my own so he could go away. It was when I arrived at the sealed gate that I finally realized I had never used a bolt cutter before and wasn’t sure how to go about it.

I paused in front of the gate to assess the situation, painfully aware of his gray eyes watching me. When I glared at him, there was no sign of judgement, but I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed regardless. I cleared my throat, and stepped towards the gate, setting the clamp part of the tool around the rusted lock. I tried hauling the handles together and realized immediately that my arms were not going to be strong enough for this particularly robust lock.

“Need help?” 

His honest intentions were so sugary sweet it made me sour. 

“No,” I snapped, sending sharp ice his way. 

He smiled in response, putting his hands in his pockets as he waited.

I turned back to the lock, trying again to press the handles together and snap the metal wedged between the sharp clamp, but failed once more. I huffed, flustered from the expended energy and from the embarrassment of his audience, witnessing me fail so terribly. 

As I started my third attempt, an extra set of hands grabbed the tool with me, higher up on the handles. He pushed them together as I did, and with his extra strength, the cutter finally snapped through the metal padlock. 

I let go of the handles, clearing my throat. “Thanks,” I offered, looking anywhere but at him to avoid his smugness, even though I knew such an expression would probably never cross his gentle features. 

“No problem.” He removed the cutter and set it aside. “What is this place?” 

I had gotten to work on removing the broken lock and unwinding the rusting chain that held the wrought iron gate closed. “It’s my grandmother’s garden. I used to spend a lot of time here when I was a kid. It hasn’t been tended to for years though.” 

“Why not?” he asked, following me through the gate as I entered into the overgrown garden. 

I turned to peer at him; he was completely unaware his questions could be considered prying. The fact that he was honestly curious made it a little easier to be truthful. “My grandfather is sick. My Nan doesn’t have the money for extra expenses right now.” 

He admired the area, but with my admission, he turned his gray gaze back to me. There was no smile this time. Something somber sat in its place instead. “That must be hard for you.” 

His seriousness surprised me. I cleared my throat and waved the comment away. “There are worse things.” Self-conscious, I tugged my sleeve down over the bandage around my wrist when I realized it had ridden up. 

“So why are we here now then?” he pried further, tapping an old, wrinkly tomato dried on its stem. 

I stared, unsure what to make of him using a plural pronoun like “we.” I never asked him to join me. He was imposing. This wasn’t a group activity. I was visiting one of my favorite places, and he was following, again. 

“You ask too many questions,” I said, sarcasm on my voice as I resisted the urge to tell him to mind his own business like he ought to have ages ago. 

A laugh played on the lines around his eyes. 

I went about my business, roaming around a high wall of crossed fencing covered in climbing plants, searching for any violet that had managed to stay alive this long. He lingered back, allowing me my space, occupying himself by checking out the overgrown vegetable crops. 

Despite myself, my attention drew back to him, watching discreetly through the small gaps in the fence separating us. He buried his fingers into the dirt and pulled a bunch of weeds out from the bottom of a pepper plant, tossing them to the side, not even brushing his hands off after. Satisfied, he strolled over towards the berry bushes, out of sight. 

I continued to the flower bed, hoping for the best, but I was sorely disappointed. Most of the plants had been taken over by dandelions, which died and smothered the other, more fragile flowers. Some of the late bloomers still hung onto their petals, but there were no violets in sight. I brushed aside a few overgrown bushes to be sure, before sighing and admitting defeat.

I rejoined him at the blackberry bush, his hand maneuvering around a thorny branch to gather a few dark berries from the depth of the plant. Despite it being a few weeks late for blackberry season, there seemed to be a few still ripe.

“You’re not supposed to pick blackberries after October eleventh,” I said.

He glanced at me, then at his handful. “Why not?” 

“The Devil gets in them on October eleventh. That’s what my Nan always said.” I took one from him, testing its plumpness between my fingertips. 

Coyness passed his lips. “I picked these ones special though. They were hiding all the way down, past the thorns. I don’t think the Devil saw them.” With his words, he popped the rest of his handful in his mouth, smug with satisfaction.

I couldn’t help but laugh this time. “Well in that case…” I ate mine as well. He was right. It was still sweet, a kiss of summer on my tongue. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, tilting his head towards the direction I had disappeared to.

I shook mine. “The violets are all dried up.” 

“Violet looking for violets.” He found humor in that, a tease of teeth behind his spreading lips as he shifted off towards the flower bed himself. 

I hung back. “I already looked.” 

“A second time doesn’t hurt.” He glanced back at me, his expression sincere again. I rolled my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but the joking had left a smile lingering on my lips, revealing the bluff.

I watched him through the fence again, strolling slowly among the dried up flowers, inspecting each and every one of them carefully. He tore out some weeds as he searched, like he did earlier, not caring about the dirt caking under his fingernails. 

He stopped where the violets were, taken over by other plants, their old petals dead and dried up from the cold. He bent at the knees and lifted the overgrown bushes as I had, meticulous in his hunt. Unlike me, he didn’t stand right away. He stayed leaned over, his hand buried in browning leaves so I couldn’t see. Then he shifted his gaze to me, as if he knew I’d been watching all along.

I followed his silent beckon, and he turned back to the spot he’d discovered, holding up the bush to show a single, tiny violet sprouted in a pristine patch of dirt. 

I was dumbfounded. I got down on my knees right next to him for a closer look. “I checked here though.” I was certain. Just a moment ago the area was all dried up. 

“You must have just missed it,” he said simply, smiling that sugar smile. 

I turned away from the flower to stare at him, catching his gray gaze and seeing the sincerity flicker briefly. 

“I guess I must have.” 

That evening, with my journal propped on my knees and a sketch of blackberries started, I peered over at the violet, now sitting in a pot on my bedside table. I bit the end of my pencil.

"Where did you come from?" I whispered, staring down the flower as if my intimidation would break its silence.

You must have just missed it. 

I hadn’t though. I was positive.