The garden at Giverny existed mostly in his head. Monet had been there two years and was still digging, planting, waiting. The place he had dreamed about wasn't ready. So he walked out the door and went five minutes down the road. These poppies weren't his. He didn't plant them, didn't design them, didn't control any of it. But they were right there, sitting in that hollow like they'd been waiting for him.
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Not His Yet
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