Summer was nearing its end, and the wind began to whisper the change. The once vibrant petals in the Garden of Beauty had started to fade, but Marc still returned every day, with sketchpad in hand. His lines are gentler now, his shading is more softer than before, his art no longer just an attempt to capture the beauty, but to entirely understand it.
One quiet evening, as he was sketching the way the ray of sunlight lit up the garden's stone path, his phone buzzed in his bag. There's a message. Curious, he opened it.
It was from an international arts institute located in Europe.
They had seen his work online, photos of his sketches posted by a local gallery owner who had admired his raw style and soulful imagery.
The institute offered him a once in a lifetime opportunity, a full scholarship to study under renowned artists all over the world, travel across countries, and develop his craft in ways he'd only dreamed of.
Marc's heart pounded. This was the kind of chance people waited their whole lives for. But instead of joy, a knot formed in his stomach. He didn't feel excited. He felt… lost.
He couldn't stop thinking about the garden, their garden.
And most importantly he couldn't stop thinking about Ira.
He wandered through the cobbled path until he found her sitting under the old tree, the same tree where they first watched the leaf together, now it's lonely and bare. She looked peaceful, eyes closed, breathing the scent of earth and wind.
He approached slowly, sat beside her, and quietly said, "Ira…"
She opened her eyes, turning to him with a soft smile. "Hey, Marc."
He handed her the phone. "Read this."
She scanned the message silently, her expressions unreadable. When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were wide. "Marc… this is incredible. You've been chosen."
He nodded, but said nothing.
She studied his face, and her smile faded into concern. "You're not happy?"
"I don't know," he admitted, voice low. "I should be. It's everything I thought I wanted. But now… I don't want to leave the garden. Or you."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspoken feelings, memories, and the weight of things unsaid.
"You were the one who taught me to see beauty," he added. "You showed me how to love the leaf, not just the rose. How can I go away and leave all this behind?"
Ira lowered her gaze, pulling her knees closer. The wind rustled the tree above, as if reminding them of the leaf that once hung there.
"Marc," she began gently, "do you remember what I told you that day?"
He looked at her, and she continued, her voice steady but soft.
"Not everything lovely needs to be owned… And sometimes, to truly love something, you have to let it live, even if it means letting it go."
He swallowed hard, with teary eyes. "Are you… saying I should go?"
"I'm saying you "need" to," she said, wiping the tears in his eyes. "You have something rare. A gift. And now you have the chance to grow it beyond this garden, beyond this town. But more than that, you carry something with you now that can never be taken away."
He furrowed his brow.
"You've learned to see," she said. "Really see. You don't need this place to hold on to that. You'll carry it with you in every sketch, every page, every shade you draw. The garden, the leaf… me. You'll take us with you, in every line you make."
Marc's chest tightened. His fingers gripped the edge of his sketchpad. "But what if I forget this, what if I forget the leaf? What if I forget this garden? What if I forget this tree?.....And what if i forget you…" he said the last part almost whispering
Ira gave him a sad smile. "Then draw me. Draw this tree. Draw the way the light looks at sunset here. Don't let yourself forget. That's what art is for. It's not to own the beauty, but to remember it."
He couldn't hold it anymore. A tear slipped down his cheek, and she reached over, brushing it away.
"I'll miss you," he whispered.
"I'll miss you too," she replied, her voice shaking. "But I'd rather miss you… than be the reason you didn't become who you were meant to be."
He reached out and held her hand. They sat that way for a long time, surrounded by silence that spoke more than words ever could. The garden around them, though it was fading, felt as vibrant as ever before. A gentle breeze passed, and for a moment, it felt like the leaf that once danced above them was watching them too.
When the sun finally set and produced a beautiful orange hue, Marc stood. "I'll go," he said. "And I'll never stop drawing, no matter what happens."
Ira stood beside him. "And I'll never stop cheering for you even if it's from far away."
He turned to her, taking one last look at the girl who taught him that beauty wasn't something to be owned, it was something to be understood.
Still holding her hand in memory, he walked away from the garden, sketchpad against his chest.
That night, before packing for the journey ahead, he sketched one last thing: not a flower, not the garden, but Ira, under the tree, eyes closed, smiling.
He titled his drawing "Loving a Leaf"