How a garden brought two hearts closer.

Arsalan never imagined he would fall in love among rows of roses. In fact, love was the last thing on his mind when he returned to his village after finishing school in the city. His uncle had grown old and needed help tending to his modest nursery on the outskirts of town. Every morning, Arsalan rose before dawn, tying a faded scarf around his neck and walking through the sleepy streets to reach the garden before the sun lit up the fields.

The nursery was simple but beautiful. Rows upon rows of rose bushes stretched out under the soft early light, heavy with dew. The scent was intoxicating, a sweet promise of mornings yet to come. Arsalan found comfort in this routine, pruning branches, watering thirsty roots, and gently whispering to the plants as if they were old friends.

Then came Hina.

She was visiting her aunt who lived next door. A girl from the city, with delicate manners and bright eyes that seemed to notice every small wonder. The first time Arsalan saw her, she was standing shyly at the garden gate, her hands clasped in front of her. She looked out of place yet perfectly at home, as if the garden had been waiting just for her.

Day by day, Hina began to wander into the nursery, always at the same quiet hour when the sun was soft and the world felt unhurried. Sometimes she would pick up fallen petals and cradle them in her palm, other times she would close her eyes and breathe in the rich fragrance as if trying to fill herself with it. Arsalan watched her from a distance, unsure what to say, how to act. His heart beat unsteadily whenever she was near.

One morning, after weeks of silent glances and awkward nods, Hina approached him while he was carefully tying up a stubborn rose stem. She carried in her hands a small bouquet of half-open roses.

“They’re beautiful,” she said softly, her voice like wind chimes. “But I think it’s you who makes this place truly come alive.”

Arsalan nearly dropped his shears. No girl had ever spoken to him like that. His throat felt tight. He managed a nervous smile and wiped his hands on his kurta. Before he could reply, Hina stepped closer and tucked a stray leaf behind his ear, her fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The world seemed to slow, the air heavy with the scent of roses and something even sweeter — the first spark of love.

From then on, the garden transformed. It was no longer just a place of flowers. It became a secret world where laughter bloomed along with the petals, where shy confessions floated on the breeze, and where two hearts slowly found each other in the hush of early mornings.

They would walk between the rows hand in hand, sometimes silent, sometimes telling stories of their childhoods. Hina loved how Arsalan’s eyes shone when he spoke about the old mango tree he used to climb, how he once fell and broke his wrist but still laughed through the pain. Arsalan, in turn, was fascinated by Hina’s tales of bustling city streets, bright shop lights, and noisy weddings with hundreds of guests.

One particular morning, when the sun was just beginning to warm the dew, Arsalan took a deep breath and reached into his pocket. His hand came out holding a tiny folded paper — a love letter he had scribbled under the dim glow of a lantern the night before.

“My words aren’t fancy,” he said, his voice trembling, “but they’re true. I wanted you to have this.”

Hina took the letter as if it were the most precious jewel. Her eyes filled with tears, a smile spreading across her face like the first bloom of spring. She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, the touch so soft it left his skin tingling long after.

The days that followed were painted with quiet joys — stolen glances, playful teasing, hands brushing over blooms heavy with perfume. The villagers began to notice, whispering among themselves, but neither Arsalan nor Hina cared. In their little world of roses, time stood still.

One evening, under a sky awash with gold and lavender, Arsalan and Hina sat together on a low stone wall at the edge of the nursery. She rested her head against his shoulder, the scent of flowers all around them, as if the earth itself celebrated their love. Arsalan looked down at her, memorizing the way her eyelashes fanned across her cheeks, the way her lips curved even in stillness.

“I think I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you by the gate,” he whispered.

“And I think,” Hina murmured back, eyes half-closed, “I came to this village just so I could find you here.”

As twilight wrapped them in its tender embrace, the garden held their secret — a promise that in the heart of every flower bloomed the story of two souls who had finally found their way home to each other.