We were out on a walk when he told me he wants to grow his own mushrooms, told me we eat them often enough that it would make sense to have our own logs. I want fresh mushrooms, he said, not those bulk mushrooms at the grocery store. His words took root in me, in the same way inspiring works of art sometimes do. I imagined baby mushrooms growing and spreading, and I imagined his beautiful artist’s hands harvesting them, then slicing them with his favorite Japanese knife. I imagined him arranging them like art on a plate, then adding them to a savory soup that would taste like earth’s magic on our tongues. He was still speaking when I spied mushrooms sprouting up along the uneven trunk of a tree, reaching up towards a sky that had become the muted pastel hue of evening. I thought of saying something but opted for silence. The moment had become a quiet treasure: his hand holding onto mine, the wintry air playfully smacking my cheeks, and his voice sharing one of many dreams from his own secret mushroom garden.