She was precise in everything—her cooking, her sewing, her rose pruning—but never harsh. There was a stillness to her that grounded Eli when the world got too noisy. Every morning, Eli took his rounds. He walked the border of the fields, checked on the soil, examined the young corn shoots, and paused near the chicken coop to scatter feed.
On most days, Margaret would wave at him from the garden, wearing a sunhat that had faded over decades and gloves that never seemed to wear out. Their life was a quiet one, but in that quiet lived a deep contentment.