So Leo did what any lovesick fool would do: he researched.

A single perfect orange cosmos on the porch railing. A smooth stone painted with a tiny ladybug. Then, one morning, a folded piece of graph paper tucked into his car door handle. On it, a hand-drawn map of the garden’s forgotten corners: the overgrown maze behind the old fountain, the hidden bench under the wisteria, the small clearing where wild strawberries grew.

At the bottom, in her tight, neat handwriting: “Meet me where the foxgloves lie. Midnight. Don’t be late.”