Judyth sits in the garden, peaceful and pensive. The garden has grown: it is beautiful, and it is wild, and it is perfect in its imperfections. During the night, she gazes at the stars as they dance. And when they play their violin, or when she sings - she could almost sweat that they dance just for her.

She sets a goal - to learn as many instruments as possible. Her fingers callous from the playing of strings, the piano becomes a friend, she hasn’t quite got the hang of omnichord yet - but she’s sure she’ll get there eventually.

The seeds acquired from Shelly required the utmost care in the beginning, Judyth laboured over the sprouts. Anxiously watching them grow and grow. Now they run wild, there is no controlling the wildness of the garden. There’s not the grey of concrete and steel but the lush greenness of leaves and foliage.

After a while the flowers bloom, and Livith visits Judyth in the garden. Judyth tries not to laugh as Livith tries to restrain her smile when Judyth places one of these flowers into her hair. Acacia visits too, so does Antonius, so does John. The garden is never empty, the people in the garden are never alone.

Her hands are often in the soil, planting bulbs, watering flowers, she grows bushes of berries. Plucking them off the stem, she rolls them in their hand, letting the juice stain her fingertips.

Ink stains her fingertips too. She writes and she writes: poetry, prose, anything and everything. Isabel is underneath it all. She’s in the garden, she’s in the stars, she’s in the words on the page. There will be a day when Judyth leaves the Block to find Isabel, but there is no rush, there is no one Isabel can go that Judyth cannot follow. She is no longer the Judyth that Isabel knew. And that may have worried her at first, but it no longer does. When those thoughts begin to creep in she thinks of Sonnet 116:

“Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom:”

Shakespeare, maybe one day Judyth will even meet him too.