You begin to notice the language of your plants: a hydrangea slumping by afternoon, containers pulling from their pots, a lawn holding footprints like a silent plea. Instead of guessing, you test the soil, watch the weather, and group plants by thirst. Little by little, the panic watering stops. In its place, there’s a steady rhythm: cool mornings, deep drinks, and a garden that no longer survives in spite of you, but because of you.
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