The Last Strawberry

The garden is quiet, the air warm with the scent of basil and sun-warmed stone. My friend leads me through rows of green, where most of the strawberries have been picked.

But there, beneath one broad leaf, hides a single perfect berry—deep red, plump, untouched.

“You take it,” she says.

I do. I taste. And it is perfect—sweet, sun-kissed, and just a little wild.

We don’t say anything. We just sit by the fence and listen to the bees.

Sometimes, the smallest sweetness is enough to hold an entire summer.