There was very little green in the greenhouse.
Desolate. Dry. Barren. Unwelcoming.
Like his life, once the water of her love was removed. It had been she who kept the greenhouse going. She lovingly tended every plant, every sprig. Life thrived under her hands.
So had his life thrived, when she was there. Cancer took her. It took everything else, too. Her life had been joy. Now, his was a desert.
Would the rain ever return? Would he wither and die like all those plants?
He found it hard to care.