I never imagined peace could come rooted in a small pot of soil, leaves reaching for the window light. As basil’s scent unfurled into the corners of the room, the atmosphere shifted from siege to something almost sacred. The flies and mosquitoes still tested the edges, but their presence felt dulled, like an echo instead of an invasion. I began to honor the plant as a partner—pinching leaves, pairing them with citrus, tucking small bowls near the places that once felt most vulnerable.
Tending it became a quiet conversation. On hard days, new leaves felt like proof that something gentle could still grow here. The house loosened its shoulders; so did I. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation, just a slow, consistent easing. In that shared breath between plant and person, the space stopped feeling haunted and started feeling like home again.
