It was not the most beautiful thing Slate had ever seen. That would be an insult to it: it was a plain thing, a simple thing. It happened in a million ways, all over the world. It had no pretensions. It expected no attention, and called none to itself: it simply was. That was what made it so beautiful.

Slate was crouched in the last of February’s snow. He had his back to the path, four feet away. Little clouds of misty white puffed out above his new red scarf; his hands, tucked into gray mittens, where resting on his knees. His eyes were riveted to the ground in front of him: to the lingering white snow as it melted in the gentle sunlight, to the slight shadow struggling to rise from it. White still capped its head, and bowed its back, yet it continued. The sprig of green continued, oblivious to its watcher. Slate himself was content to simply watch. With a flick of his hand, he could have freed it from the snow. It would be a very human thing to do. Impatient.

Slate had no lack of patience. The little blade of green would succeed, with or without him; it would live its life, with or without him. The snow would fall from its top, and it would grow. Winter would turn to Spring, Spring to Summer; it would be here, long after he had left.

There was a simple joy, in sharing that life with it for a time. He felt content, and happy; fulfilled, to be doing nothing more than this.

Slate was watching grass grow.

There was something about the brisk air as Winter started to loosen its grasp and give way to spring that made Kealey Quinn feel alive. She’d taken to walks in the park on mornings like this when the sun showed its face to the quickly shrinking blanket of white that had recently covered Central Park. They were on the cusp on the turning point, where winter’s snowy white would give way to stretches of green that almost looked out of place in the urban jungle that was New York City. Kealey loved it, every moment of it. Something about the pure natural feeling in the changing of the seasons harkened to her upbringing in the rural and rolling hills of Ireland. So she was already in an uplifted and earthy mood when she stumbled upon the watcher and his blade of grass.

There were times when being an empath had weighed heavily on Kealey Quinn’s shoulders. Knowing things a person didn’t necessarily know about themselves had a way of complicating situations that sometimes would have been far easier to deal with in other, more traditional, circumstances. This wasn’t one of those times though. No, this was a delight, to stumble upon a person so full of fascination and happiness. Kealey was drawn to him like a moth to flame.

Details were lost on the blond as she veered from her side of the path to come up alongside the young man. (Not that Kealey had noticed anything about him beyond his emotional sate.) Down she went, on her knees, the hard and chilly pavement not even bothering her as her eyes sought out what it was that had him so fascinated. Blue eyes fell on the simple blade of grass and it was all so clear.

The way the grass struggled, pushing its green little head through what must have seemed like mountains of snow. It was so close now, and it was as if the sun were urging it on in its battle against the finger hold that winter still seemed to have. Kealey watched it and let out a happy sigh, simply bathing in the simple beauty of the thing, and the feelings of the young man next to her. They were even warmer than the sun.

No words were spoken. No words needed to be spoken. Life was happening here, and it was amazing.

A bead of water formed under the blade's white cap, and rolled to its tip. It lingered there, weighing the green head down, too small yet to fall. A perfect reflection hung fluidly over its surface: the world in miniature.

Someone jogged past, in blue pants. Then a dog, and his man. A woman was sitting next to him. Slate was not sure when she had arrived, but it seemed that he'd already known she was there. Sitting so close together, their bodies warmed the space between them. He could feel her. It was nice.

A small smile briefly touched Slate's lips, and was held in the bead: then, with a sudden flick, the bead dropped. The grass stood a little straighter, its white cap a little smaller.

Now two watched over its birth.