He had always hated gardens. As a child, he would avoid them, fearing the insects, the dirt, the thorns. He preferred to stay indoors, reading books, playing games, watching TV. He thought gardens were boring, messy, and useless.

As he grew older, his disdain for gardens did not change. He pursued a career in finance, working long hours, making money, buying things. He had no time for nature, no interest in flowers, no appreciation for beauty. He only cared about himself, and his success.

He had no friends, no lovers, no hobbies, no interests. He only had himself, and his things. He thought he was happy, until one day, he met her.

She was a gardener, a lover of plants, a nurturer of life. She had a smile that brightened his day, a voice that soothed his soul, a touch that healed his wounds. She showed him the wonders of the garden, the colors, the fragrances, the shapes. She taught him the names of the flowers, the stories of the trees, the secrets of the seeds. She made him see the garden as a living, breathing, miracle.

He fell in love with her, and with the garden. He started to spend more time outdoors, less time indoors. He started to care less about money, more about meaning. He started to feel more alive, more joyful, more grateful. He started to change, for the better.

He realized, too late, the words of Rumi:

"Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving. It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come."[^1^][1]

He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, how much he owed her, how much he needed her. But he never got the chance.

She died, suddenly, in an accident. He was devastated, heartbroken, shattered. He lost his love, and his garden.

He tried to go back to the garden, to feel her presence, to honor her memory. But he couldn't. The garden was not the same without her. The flowers had lost their color, the trees had lost their shade, the seeds had lost their promise. The garden was dead, to him.

He cried, and left the garden, hoping to forget the pain. But it was no use. The pain followed him, wherever he went.

He wandered the world, looking for a new garden, a new love, a new life. But he found none.

He died, alone, in a hotel room, surrounded by the things he once valued, and now despised.

He wished he could go back to the garden, and be with her, again.