The tulips arrived from the market this week. Pale, upright, not yet fully open — the kind that take a few days to find themselves in a room.

They went straight into the cast iron vases. It was not a considered decision. It simply felt right — the weight and darkness of the iron against the delicacy of the blooms, the rough texture of the metal against petals that are almost translucent in the morning light…

There is no single moment when winter ends. It retreats gradually, almost reluctantly, leaving behind habits that take a little longer to follow.

The candlesticks come off the mantelpiece first. Not stored away — simply replaced, for now, by whatever the garden or the hedgerow is offering. A jar of narcissus. A stem or two of hellebore, nodding…