In summer, it's a riot of colors he can't see - but he knows the scents, has come to appreciate even the ones he doesn't think smell great. (Looking at you, marigolds.) And Scully had loved it; they'd spent more than one evening just like this, looking on at the plants and wandering through them, talking about them, picking the ripe vegetables.

It had been his little project, housewife stuff to keep him busy while she worked. Genuinely interesting, but eventually, it felt like busywork. Everything had; everything, save Scully, still does. The more things change, the more Mulder stays the same.

"Maybe I will," he answers wistfully, letting himself linger a little nearer as he breaks off the end of a stalk of lavender and holds it up in the sunlight. It really was pretty good, as gardens go. So many things were pretty good, until they fell apart. "I'm going to have to think of some new ones to add."