A single word? I’d sketch a tiny garden in a glass jar, each petal a hue that shifts when you stare. For hope I’d pick the soft lilac of dawn mist, the pale yellow of a hesitant sun, the mint green of a new leaf, and a gentle peach that whispers “try again.” Together they’re a quiet promise, and if you look too closely you’ll see the shadows of doubt still tucked in the corners—because hope is never entirely without its own little black roses.