Page 117 of The Yoga Teacher

The room buzzed faintly with the hum of the overhead lights. Her lawyer flipped through his notes, giving her the space she needed without saying so. A gesture of respect. Or maybediscomfort. After all, how many people walked into this office looking like they were about to fall apart?

Hannah’s eyes drifted. There was a fern in the corner. One of those sleek, tasteful ones with glossy leaves and too-perfect symmetry. It didn’t smell like anything. Nothing in here did.

She looked back at the papers. At the line with her name. At the empty space that would make it final.

She lifted the pen.

And froze.

A memory surfaced—sudden, uninvited.

Daniel, on his knees in a garden bed, holding up a lavender sprout and smiling like he’d done something monumental. His hands covered in soil, a streak of dirt across his cheek, and that look on his face—proud and gentle and slightly unsure.

And then, overlapping it, another memory.

Him standing in their kitchen on a rainy Tuesday night, barefoot, holding two mugs of tea. He’d wordlessly handed her one, then wrapped his arms around her from behind as she leaned against the counter. No conversation. Just warmth. Just quiet. Just love that didn’t need to be named.

It was last week. It was three years ago. It was all tangled together.

Hannah blinked hard.

She looked back at the page. Her hand trembled slightly, the pen hovering above the line.

She couldn’t do it.

Not yet.

She exhaled slowly, then placed the pen down with care, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the desk. Her lawyer looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“I’m going to need a little more time,” she said softly.

He nodded once, neutral. “Of course. Let me know when you're ready.”

She gathered her bag, folding the papers neatly and slipping them in. The weight of them felt different now. Not heavy—but not light either. Like something suspended in air, waiting to fall.

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The air was thick with the scent of soil and basil, the kind of dusky warmth that settled just before twilight. Hannah crouched near the planter boxes, gloved hands tugging out a stubborn weed with more force than necessary.

She hadn’t planned on coming here. But she needed something steady. Something growing. Something that wouldn’t judge if she pressed her palms too hard into the earth.

“Hannah?”

She turned at the sound of her name and spotted Elaine approaching, a pair of gardening shears in one hand, hersunhat tilted slightly to one side. Behind her, Robert pushed a wheelbarrow half-full of compost, waving when he saw her.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” Elaine said, smiling as she stopped beside the planter bed.

“Didn’t know I would either,” Hannah said, pulling off her gloves. “Just needed to breathe.”

Elaine nodded like she understood—because of course she did. She gestured toward a nearby bench shaded by the wide leaves of a fig tree. “Sit with us a minute?”

Hannah hesitated, then nodded.

They settled in, a triangle of quiet among the rustling plants and distant laughter of kids still playing near the rain barrels. Robert leaned his elbows on his knees, brushing a bit of dirt from his forearm.

“Something’s weighing on you,” Elaine said gently.

Hannah didn’t answer right away. She let her eyes drift across the garden. A little girl was watering tomato plants, the stream from her tiny can uneven but enthusiastic. Daniel had fixed that can’s broken handle last week.

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