I don’t write a note. I mail the seeds to Prince Edward Island the following day. The next week, a yellow package arrives to the flower shop. It’s heavier than the ones Felix used to send, but it’s his handwriting on the label. I recognize it from in the margins of his books. I’ve seen it on ten other envelopes. I pull out a copy of The Secret Garden. He hasn’t written a letter, either. I stare at the book, smiling, and then I reach for my phone. I love it.
