The quiet of winter is a different quiet, isn't it? A tucked-in kind of quiet, like the world is holding its breath. The garden's all bones and whispers but underneath, under the frozen earth, there's a hum of life waiting and that's what I keep listening for, that deep thrum. It's a promise, I guess, of spring, of sun on my face and Honey chasing butterflies, but it's also a reminder that even in the dead of things, there's still something breathing, still something worth holding onto and watering, even if you can't see it yet.