Gary stepped out onto the worn step of his small old cabin and breathed in the morning air. He was thirty, single, and certain the right woman was out there. He just had to find her. On the windowsill behind him sat a glass jar with a young sequoia rising from dark soil. He kept it there because it meant something he couldn't yet say out loud. Small now. Big later. The right roots. He walked the path until he reached the old signpost with two painted arms. One pointed to the forest. One pointed to town. He stood there longer than he meant to, like he did most days. A woman passed him on the path — quick smile, kind eyes. His gut said maybe. His head said prove it. He couldn't, so he let her go. Again. That was the problem. He felt his standards in his chest but couldn't shape them into words sharp enough to trust. At the worn stone arch over the stream, a young gnome woman in a red hat was crouched, fixing a loose stone back into place. She looked up. "Someone should hold this together," she said, matter-of-fact. "Nobody else was going to." Gary stopped. That was it. Not a list. A sentence. Someone who saw what was loose and steadied it without being asked. He walked home knowing, for the first time, exactly what he was looking for — and that he'd just heard it spoken aloud.