In her garden? Time passes differently.

The day before, she had ice skated with Nikolai. The day after, it was summer and she'd given a strange, little woman a persimmon tree. This morning when she awoke in fresh, summer loam, she awoke understanding. First, that her father was gone. This garden was now hers. He had left to what he must do in whichever plane, planets, universe, time and place had called him. He had gone--but not without giving her the gift of his garden.

Her garden.

She sat up against the willow tree. It was her favorite of all trees, if she must admit, if she must press to tell such things. No, she loved all her trees...but something about the willow called to her as strong as the lotus. In her garden, she could look as far as the eye could see and never have to worry about what she would see. She would never know things about people she did not want to know. She would never say things that were thought odd. She would never distance people with her inability to touch them. She could take her bare palm against the parch and--

Oh.

Second: she knew that he was gone. Nikolai, like her father, had found a place to be. Someplace happy, she thought. Some place warm. Some place where laughter did not need to be taught. She thought she held no regrets, but prophet water prick behind her eye lashes. The wind sighed at her. Her lotus bowed their heads. The willow whispered. "I never said the things I should have. I suppose there is no one to blame but myself."

In her garden, she kissed the black of kid-gloves and perhaps, prayed, wherever he was, he dreamed of the lotus. How its petals, when he picked to take in its scent, dipped for his mouth in giggling wind.

Ran understood then, what it meant to love.

She thanks him only in dreams. White petals and distant foxes running through leaves.