She had bid unto him, that a garden should be built. And he, with all the art he possessed, driven on by fire, had done so. He stands there now, alone in the dark, aching for her as he has never ached for anything else. Remembering the stories he had told her in the beginning, how it made him fill with light at the request. And he thinks of the strangeness of it, this soul that speaks as if it has walked out of the East on the heels of Rumi. How he can not ever seem to say these things aloud, how he fears the past has more power than the future. He wishes that he could have been given a book about her, so as to be all he can for her. This is how he communicates the deepest parts of himself, afraid that she will flee at too much tenderness, or think him weak and effeminate. Belief alone in her, and of what they share, is all that propels him forward. Knowing they have only begun, that his experience of her is merely a taste of what may be, he writes.