That evening, Michael and Abigail sat together in the garden beneath the stars.
“Tell me something real,” he said, using the same words he had used the day they first met.
Abigail looked at the night sky and answered after a long pause.
“I’m not afraid anymore,” she said. “I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I could lose everything at any moment. But right now… tonight… I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Michael listened.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a ring.
It was simple and beautiful, set with a deep green stone.
“I know you asked for time and room,” he said. “You were right. But I don’t want time and room anymore. I want you. For everything that comes next.”
Abigail looked at the ring, then at him.
She thought about the girl who had moved from house to house with no place of her own. The young woman who had arrived at this mansion with one bag and a cautious heart. She thought about the roses she had brought back to life, the herb patch restored from neglect, the garden that had bloomed because someone finally paid attention.
And then she said yes.
They married three months later in the garden, in early February, when the roses were opening again.
Mr. Collins was there, neat and quietly pleased. Thomas stood proudly near the back, his eyes brighter than usual. Daniel the chemist attended, along with a few of Michael’s closest friends and colleagues.
Abigail had no family to invite.
But she had the garden.
