Chapter 9 - Shifting Light

Rebecca’s morning started with exactly three priorities: photograph the plants, write the descriptions, and get her first auction of the season scheduled on Facebook. Only a few plants this time — a gentle way to ease back into the rhythm of spring selling.

She arranged the pots on the porch table: a bright little daylily, a young hosta division, two ferns, and a small azalea from Linda’s last visit. She took each photo carefully — angled, centered, clean. No harsh shadows. No clutter.

Sam stepped outside holding his coffee like a trophy. “Great pictures,” he said. “People are gonna fight over these.”

Rebecca smirked. “It’s a small auction, Sam. A nice warm-up. People will bid quietly in the comments and we’ll see how it goes.”

He leaned over her shoulder as she typed the descriptions into Facebook.

“Start price here… size… shipping note… okay.”

Her thumb hovered over the final button.
Schedule post. Publish at 6:00 PM.
The moment she tapped it, her stomach fluttered. Not fear — something closer to excitement, but more fragile.

“You’re officially in season,” Sam said proudly.

A buzzing sound came from across the yard.

Dave stood at the hedge line wearing safety goggles and holding his trimmer like a knight’s sword. “Storm softened this hedge up,” he shouted over the hum. “Perfect time to give it some shape!”

Rebecca laughed. “You and your timing.”

Dave shrugged. “Gotta hit plants while they’re feeling humble.”

She carried her laptop and tags back toward the potting bench, stepping around a few stray leaves left from the hailstorm. The garden still looked a little shaken — hosta bites, azalea bruises, and of course, the tiny seedling with its little holes like someone had pressed a hole punch through each leaf.

But it was still standing.

Sam knelt near the bench, staring at the seedling’s pot with the thoughtful intensity of someone who was about to make a mistake.

“What are you doing?” Rebecca asked.

“Helping,” he said.

The pot was no longer where she’d left it. It was sitting several feet forward — in a bright patch of direct sunlight, already warming. Rebecca froze. “Sam… why is it in full sun?”

He lifted his hands defensively. “You said it needed light.”

“Indirect light!” she cried. “Soft shade — it’s a seedling, not a solar panel!”

Dave shut off the trimmer. “What’d he do now?”

Rebecca pointed at the pot like it was a crime scene. “He moved it.”

Dave walked over, crouched, and touched the soil. “Warm,” he muttered. “Too warm. She’s drooping. She’s stressed.”

Sam groaned. “I swear I was trying to be helpful.”

Rebecca carefully lifted the pot back under the shelter of the bench, rotating the small leaves toward safety. The seedling wobbled like it was exhaling in relief.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered.

Dave nodded. “It’ll bounce back. Plants with scars usually do.”

Sam looked miserable. “I’ll stop touching things.”

“No,” Rebecca said softly. “Just ask first.”

Dave returned to the hedge.

Sam returned to his coffee.

And Rebecca stood between them, staring at the tiny seedling that had somehow become the heartbeat of the garden.

Later tonight, her auction post would publish.

People would peek in quietly, comment their bids, maybe even fight over the little fern she had forgotten to appreciate.

But for now, her world was simple:
A recovering plant.
A recovering gardener.
And a scheduled auction that would unfold in silence — just like the shade garden itself.

She touched the pot gently.
“Stay in the shade, little one. Tonight’s a big night.”
The seedling leaned slightly toward the darker side of the bench, as if agreeing.