As natural light faded, to be replaced with a soft glow from curtained windows, Julio looked down at his hands. Calloused and dark, they sat in his lap, covered with moist earth. Here and there spots of crimson showed the cruel rejoinder of the roses he tended so ardently.

The things these hands had done weighed heavily upon him. Fresh sins committed not a hundred yards away burned his conscious, tearing open memories of sins a thousand miles away. The work of the day had kept his mind off these things all day, while men came and went, while the sun completed its heavenly arc.

Blinking away the tears of realization, Julio stood on sturdy legs and set back to work. Tools had to be put away. Supplies had to be stowed in their place. Things had to be made right in the beautiful garden. His mind had to be distracted.

“Julio, come to bed…” echoed the voice from memory, joining the chorus, overlapping accents, undermining currents of regret and longing.

The moon crept up, and the memories came.