The shed was filled with a sweet aroma. Too sweet. Cloying.

Then he took the artificial baits.
Carefully, he added a few drops of rose oil—the same bottle he had kept since his mother’s death.

She smiled.

— We’ll see, José Luis… which fish are tempted by the scent of an offended garden.

Then it was the turn of the fishing rods.

She took them out one by one.
She placed them on the table.

He took a large pair of scissors.

He cut the thread right where the knot was most complicated.
A small gesture.

But devastating.

When she finished, she wrapped all the reeds in paper.
She tied them with a red ribbon.

He even left a note.

“For the man who loves order.
With love, María Elena.”

As he gazed at his little masterpiece, he felt something unexpected.

Calm.

It wasn’t anger.
It was balance.

He thought:

Revenge is like gardening.
It requires patience.
Attention to detail.
And a touch of elegance.

That night José Luis returned in a good mood.

He brought a new box of fishing hooks.
And two cold beers.

“Maria Elena!” she called from the doorway. “We’re going to the lake this weekend!”

She looked up serenely.

— What a joy, love. I left you a surprise in the shed.

José Luis went there whistling.

Maria Elena poured herself a cup of chamomile tea.
She sat down.
She waited.

A minute of silence.

Then…

A scream that shook the house.

— MARIA ELENA! What the hell did you do?

She replied sweetly:

— What’s wrong, dear?

José Luis stormed out of the shed, furious.
In his hand he carried a broken cane.

— My fishing rods! They’re ruined!

Maria Elena tilted her head slightly.

— I didn’t ruin them… I just organized them.
You wanted order.

Now they are all perfectly the same.

— You’re crazy!

She smiled calmly.

— No, my love. It’s art. It’s called “Homo Piscator in Conflict.”

José Luis didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
He ended up cursing.

Meanwhile, María Elena drank her tea with complete tranquility.

Every insult he hurled at her fell like water.

Water slowly falling on the invisible roots of her new roses.

The next morning, José Luis left early for Lake Yuriria .
He wanted to salvage what was left of his pride.

When the truck disappeared down the road, Maria Elena opened a small drawer.

Inside there was a box.

The cover said:

“English rose seeds — rare variety.”

She had bought them a month ago.
But she had never dared to plant them.

Until now.

He knelt by the fence.
He began to plant carefully.

“Don’t be afraid, girls,” she whispered. “Evil passes. And weeds can be pulled up too.”

In the afternoon, José Luis returned soaked and in a bad mood.

“Not a single bite!” he grumbled.
“And the bait smelled like cake… like cake, Maria Elena!”