He had always loved the smell of lavender.
It grew in his garden in flourishes; soft green stalks blooming and sprouting purple flowers, primed to be picked for the flower sale that next spring.
He loved flowers, and he hated them. The flowers were what had taken her away from him; entrancing her into his garden as she cooed softly to them, the buds responding by peaking through a coat of leaves. The garden loved her, when she stepped into the backyard the grass would thicken and the bees would settle into her long hair. He had always told her it was only because of the color; a rich gold so close to honey it was a wonder they didn't make a next, but he knew better. He had always known that she was loved by each and every life form in those small square meters. He had known it, and hated it.
He would wake day after day, eyes tired and hair mussed, reaching for her even though he knew she would not be there. Part of him would hope, yearn for her to be cooking in the kitchen or reading in the front room of the small cottage, but he knew better. He knew that his Lily would be petting daffodils and cuddling with chipmunks and he saw it each and every morning.