A Half Built Garden の小説・ストーリー

They walked towards the gate of the home and get inside. The roofs have some curvature that eventually has high dents at the ends. There is a rock garden with many styled plants like they did some bonsai. It had a vast courtyard at its middle part, and the home is made with a square-like structure surrounding the lush green courtyard, and the courtyard has a pond in it, with a small miniature bridge above the water.

"We will build new memories there." "Our home..." My eyes watered when it sank in that we would have a fresh start, beginning with this house. "How did you manage to build it in two weeks." "Non-stop labor, day and night. But it’s not fully done. The half-wing is still under construction, but the other half is livable. But..." He flashed me a wide smile, and the happiness swirling in his eyes was contagious. "If you expect a fully furnished house, you will be disappointed. I’m not good at it, and I was hoping my Luna would help decide on those matters."

Suddenly she wanted to see what rubbish flowers and plants Mary Kinson were growing. With this thought, she pushed open the door of her bedroom directly, walked up to the balcony, opened the sliding door, and walked into the small garden . At first glance she was dazzled. Suddenly, she saw a few grasses in the middle position, with leaves like enlarged leeks, but the tips bent down, and the grass leaves gradually turned white, forming a moon. This is... half moon grass! ? ? ? It can't be? How can a country bumpkin like Mary Kinson raise such an expensive half-moon grass?

The courtyard hadn’t been designed to hold anything living. When they’d found the building, it had been a loading bay—cracked concrete, rusted drainage grates, a discarded forklift slowly fusing with its own decay. Now, months into the new order, it was… almost a garden. Almost. Raised beds built from reclaimed wood lined two sides. Dark soil mounded inside them, damp from a recent watering. A few stubborn green shoots poked up—herbs, according to Nia, who’d declared that “we can’t live on protein bars and trauma forever.”

From the outside, if you didn’t know it was a private home, you might think it was a well-kept enclosed park. But that impression applies only to the front. The backyard was a compromise between me and Kirill. Plenty of decorative greenery, but also comfortable renovated zones. A driveway leads to the back where the underground garage is still under construction. We now have a small orchard, flowerbeds around the kids’ playground, a big beautiful gazebo, and a barbecue area. A pool was installed too—with a temporary child-safety fence—and several loungers for sunny days. Construction on a small guest house is still ongoing; it will be home to the full-time staff and security.

Tanjie said with a sly smile. As we walked in, it was clear to see all the work they had put in. This half of the garden was almost perfect. The stone paths had been paved. The hedges had been planted. The flowerbeds had been installed. I even noticed that the old basin from the original fountain was used as a focal point, overflowing with gorgeous flowers in full bloom. “It’s looking spectacular,” I told Tanjie. “Truly. I’m so happy with the progress you all have made.”

I needed the noise, the chaos, the distraction. Ben and I had spent ages designing and building the back garden here. It was our sanctuary project after... well, after everything. We’d built a pool house, installed a jacuzzi, and constructed an outdoor bar and grill area with a pergola seating area surrounded by snapdragons (apparently they were Mari's favourite). On the other side, we’d built a stick den and a play area for the boys, complete with a trampoline and swing set.

To dream of. Mrs Haughter was outside her little detached bungalow, holding a massive garden fork as she worked on her garden. The garden was at both the right and left part of her compound and I had to say, her house was pretty but seemed to have been structured by a five-year old. The garden occupied more than 60% of the compound's space and her little bungalow stood in the middle, leaving the compound no space for garage or any other thing that made a house a home. “Oh, Lucas,” she turned to George slowly, “seems you brought company.”

That thought cements my decision and I grab my phone and head out to the garden. The place is still half under construction. There are dirt patches and stone slabs stacked on one side. The scent of wet soil is heavy in the air. When we returned to the villa weeks ago, work had resumed, but it’s far from finished. I call the foreman. “Carlo.” “Mr. Moretti!” His voice is startled. “Good evening, Signore.” “When will the garden be ready?” I ask, scanning the dark outline of the space. “End of the week, maybe three days,” he says. “Still a lot to—”