Of course, no-one has committed to anything, not yet. They carry too heavy coats over their arms, and tuck scarves and umbrellas into bulging bags. But everyone has remembered: birdsong, bluebells, buds; opening curtains onto sunlit streets; the smell of grass. They lift their faces skywards as they walk, and pull their breath a little deeper.
He planted daffodils when she was sleeping, basked in her delight as they raised their shoots between the blades of grass. Now they crowd the garden, yellow trumpets on green stilts, heralding spring.