Chapter Text
The air held a whisper of change. The heavy, humid blanket of summer had lifted, replaced by a crispness that hinted at autumn. Sunlight, softer now, painted the family's vegetable garden in a golden hue. Arthur, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms tanned from months of labor, carefully plucked a vibrant red tomato from its vine. Clara, kneeling beside him, gently unearthed a cluster of potatoes, their skins still dusted with earth.
“Look, Arthur, these are beautiful,” she said, holding up a handful. “Just like Mrs. Higgins' award winners last year.”
Arthur chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow. “Don't get any ideas, Clara. This is for stew, not ribbons.”
A few feet away, Tiffany, a whirlwind of dark pigtails and sticky fingers, was supposedly collecting berries. A scattering of half-empty baskets sat abandoned around her, testament to her dedication to quality control – primarily tasting. Her face was smeared with purple juice, and a blue butterfly, seemingly unfazed by her presence, danced around a still-flowering dogwood.
Barnaby, the family's scruffy terrier mix, ambled over to Tiffany, tail wagging hopefully. He sniffed at a particularly juicy-looking berry that had rolled onto the ground. Tiffany, giggling, offered him one. He took it gingerly, then looked at her with an expression that clearly said, "More!"
“Sharing is caring, Barnaby,” she announced, popping another berry into her own mouth.
Clara watched them, a soft smile on her face. “Arthur, remember when we first planted this garden? Tiffany could barely crawl.”
Arthur nodded, his gaze softening as he watched his daughter. “Seems like yesterday. Now she’s practically a little wild woman.”
He stood, stretching his back, and picked a single, perfect sunflower head. "Here, Clara," he said, handing it to her. "For the kitchen table."
She took it, her fingers brushing his. "It's perfect, Arthur. Just perfect."
The breeze rustled the leaves overhead, sending a shower of yellow petals onto the ground. The air was filled with the sweet scent of ripening fruit, the earthy aroma of freshly dug potatoes, and the faint perfume of late-blooming flowers. Tiffany, her berry-gathering temporarily abandoned, wandered over to her parents.
"Mommy, Daddy," she said, her voice full of the earnestness only a little child can possess, "Can we make pie tonight? Berry pie, with all the berries!"
Clara and Arthur exchanged a look. "Sounds like a plan," Arthur said, picking Tiffany up and swinging her gently. "The best berry pie the world has ever seen." And in that moment, surrounded by the bounty of their labor and the love of their family, they knew it would be.