A boy on the other side of the fence waves his whole arm. Sumi lifts her hand halfway, then tucks it into her sleeve. She ducks behind the ivy. Leaves scrape across her nose as she watches him wave through the green curtain.
Next morning, Sumi slides a tiny sun with one round smiley face under the bottom fence rail. Before lunch, a blue square scrapes back from the other side. She peels it open.
A crescent moon. Five stars. A small scrawled name: Hamza. The paper smells like waxy blue crayon. She presses it flat against the wooden fence so the wind won't take it.
By the fifth day, cherry blossoms climb her side; jasmine vines cross the other. Her crayon SNAPS mid-stroke. Pink wax flakes tumble onto the grass. She tapes the two pieces back together.
That evening, Hamza's reply stretches past the middle of the fence. The flowers almost touch. She holds her breath.
Sumi unrolls their picture across the full width. Cherry blossoms left, jasmine right. Where the gardens meet, the wooden fence lines simply aren't there. The wind catches the paper. It billows like a flag.
She looks up through the ivy gap. Hamza stands there, grinning, arms spread wide. She opens her mouth. "Hi," she says. One word. Small. But real.
Every morning now, a red petal from the left, a yellow star from the right. The picture stretches from front gate to back door. When the wind rustles it, it sounds like dry leaves dancing in a circle.
