Tuesday morning, early spring. The swarm did not return. The Red Hive is silent. The workers are restless; their work has no place to land. I have prepared a queen cell just in case. It feels like leaving a light on for someone who may already be gone. By midsummer the clover will come in thick and gold. Fox prints will loop through the dew, careful around the landing boards. If the bees make it to autumn, the whole meadow will remember this week as nothing more than a held breath. If not—then this page is my promise: that I stayed with them, season after season, and did not look away.