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Lena, hurt and defiant, challenges him publicly. “My grandmother’s lilac bush has buds. The chickadees changed their song. That’s spring, Arlo. Not some number on a page.”

The clock ticks. At 11:06, a single, warm breeze rustles through the square. Everyone feels it.

Arlo smiles—a rare, cracking thing. “We wait two days. Then, on the equinox, we throw a party. You bring the mural. I’ll bring the hot cider. And we agree: spring starts when the crocuses dare to come back.”