The smile she gives him is gentle; her suspicions for the moment aren't relevant. Maybe he planted them for her; even if he hadn't, it's nice to know they're here, growing. Even if she was here and is now gone. Even if he leaves this little house behind, the flowers will endure, deep-rooted and quiet and beautiful. Doesn't that count for something?

"It sounds lovely," she says, grateful to know it even if she can't see it. If he did it for her-- not her, but her-- it's a lovely thought. A little sad in light of-- she has no idea of what, really. But no less beautiful. For her, beautiful and sad are so often intertwined, lately.

"Are the flowers more or less work than the fish?" she asks, a warm and teasing tone.