Chapter Text
The bell chimed softly as Sam pushed the door open, and, as always, he paused briefly on the threshold, letting the familiar scent settle around him.
The place was always full without ever being too loud. To the right, the coffee counter, where milk frothed and cups slid across polished wood; to the left, tall bookshelves heavy with volumes, some of them slightly leaning under their weight. In between, low tables, mismatched armchairs, and plants scattered everywhere—some lush and thriving, others clearly neglected, their yellowing leaves betraying a lack of care. Light filtered in at an angle through the large windows, giving the whole place a warm, almost suspended feeling.
Sam closed the door gently behind him, then crossed the room without hesitation toward the back of the shop, to the gardening section. He lingered there for a moment, running his fingers along the spines with a sure, practiced motion, pulling one book out, flipping through another, putting it back without a second thought. He knew exactly what he was looking for—and, more importantly, what wasn’t worth reading.
Eventually, he chose one, tucked it under his arm, and made his way back to the counter. He ordered his usual coffee and a slice of cake. When he turned to find a place to sit, his gaze drifted, almost despite himself, toward the table by the window.
Frodo was already there. He always was.
Seated slightly apart, at a table that seemed to have become his without anyone ever deciding it, a notebook open in front of him, several loose sheets scattered around, a cup of coffee he invariably forgot to drink. He wrote for long stretches, bent over his pages, sometimes still, sometimes scratching things out, starting again.
Sam looked away at once, then glanced back a second later, without really knowing why. He finally went to sit in his usual spot, set his coffee down, opened his book… and read. A little. Not enough. His attention kept drifting elsewhere.
“They won’t last long.”
The voice made him look up. Frodo was standing beside his table, notebook in hand, his gaze resting on the plants around them. Sam followed his line of sight, then straightened slightly to take a better look.
“No,” he said after a moment. “That one’s had too much water. The leaves are already turning yellow. And that one… it needs more light. It’s leaning toward the window.”
Frodo looked more closely, as if he were noticing something that had been right in front of him for weeks.
“You know your stuff,” he said simply.
Sam shrugged.
“It’s my job.”
Frodo glanced at the book in front of him.
“You always pick things like that.”
Sam lowered his eyes, resting a hand on the page.
“Yeah.”
Frodo hesitated for a second, then:
“Is it for work?”
Sam shook his head slightly.
“Not just that.”
He looked up.
“I love plants. It’s more of a passion than a job, really. I like taking care of them, learning about them, saving them… watching them grow.”
“And me—why do you watch me?”
Sam froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard, then ran a hand behind his neck, a little embarrassed.
“I don’t really know…”
He searched for his words, without quite finding them.
“Because you do the same thing, I think.”
Frodo frowned slightly.
“The same thing?”
Sam gestured vaguely toward the notebook.
“You look… you think… you change things so it works… you tend to your pages like I tend to my plants.”
Frodo lowered his eyes to his writing.
“It doesn’t always work,” he said.
“Yeah,” Sam answered simply. “That happens.”
He gave a small smile.
“But that’s no reason not to try.”
Frodo looked up at him. He watched him for a long moment, without speaking. Then, without warning, he pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
“May I?”
Sam nodded. Frodo opened his notebook, hesitated for a second, then slid it toward him.
“Read.”
Sam set his cup down, wiped his fingers on his napkin, then leaned forward. He read slowly, in silence, without rushing. Every now and then, he frowned, went back, reread a line. He took his time, as if trying to understand something alive. He had the strange feeling that he was getting to know Frodo better through his words.
When he finally looked up, he stayed quiet for a moment.
“It’s good,” he said at last.
Frodo gave a faint smile.
“But?”
Sam hesitated, then placed his hand flat on the page.
“You can see what’s wrong. But you don’t really see what keeps them going… what helps them survive everything they go through.”
Frodo didn’t answer. He was looking at the notebook as though it were the first time.
Sam shrugged lightly.
“It’s the same with gardens. If things grow, there’s something there. Even if you don’t see it right away.”
Frodo closed the notebook slowly.
When Sam stood to leave, he gathered his things, slipped his book under his arm, then paused, as if he wanted to say something—before shaking his head and taking a step forward.
“See you tomorrow, Sam.”
Frodo had looked up, watching him with that soft, unmistakable smile. Sam felt himself flush without really knowing why.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Frodo.”
He stepped outside, passing by the window, and couldn’t help glancing back inside one last time. There, at the table by the window, Frodo was writing differently.