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Long ago in the European countryside, they lived a woman and her husband. Their beautiful

and quiet home was nestled among rolling hills and sprawling green pastures.

They hoped to someday raise a child of their own. From the window of their living room,

a luscious landscape stretched out far into the distance. The woman spent her calm hours

sitting by the window, dreaming of the baby she might someday have.

She would also gaze longingly at the garden that lay next to their land.

This neighbor's garden was full of life.

Neatly organized sections of flowers created a mural of vibrant color.

Herbs sprouted across the earth and ivy trailed the long, red brick wall.

The widow, living on this neighboring land, had a way of making things grow.

Or so it was said.

On warm days, when the windows of the house were open, the fresh smell of basil and rosemary

wafted into every room of the couple's home.

The air danced with the sweet scent of roses and paint fuses, soothing every corner of the house.

The woman envied the widow's agricultural abilities. Her own garden was bare and comparison.

Though she tended to it for long hours to preparely grow weeds.

One day, the woman was launching by the window,

...