The Garden Left Behind

The house Is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet I'm used to, the uneven kind, where sound slips past one ear and fades before I can catch It. This Is different. This quiet presses in from all sides, like It knows something Is missing. I stand at the doorway longer than I need to. My hand rests against the cold frame, the wood is cool, solid. Real. Unlike everything else.

". . . I'm home."

The words leave my mouth, but I dont hear them properly. I never do, not fully. They come back to me distorted, thinner than they should be. I tilt my head slightly out of habit, turning my right ear toward a voice that isn't there.

No answer.

Of course. I step inside anyway.

The floor creaks under my weight, or atleast I think It does. I feel it more than I hear It, a faint vibration travelling up through my shoes. I've learned to trust that feeling. It's more reliable than sound.

The air smells the same. Tea leaves and old paper. Something faintly floral.

Mother

My chest tightens, but nothing comes out of it. Not tears. Not anymore. I suppose I've already used them all up. Instead I move. Past the chair she always sat in. Past the table with the slight ring from her teacup still marking the surface. Past the shelves lined with books she insisted on organizing even when she was too tired to stand properly. My fingers brush against their spines.

Some of them still have her labels, Small and neatly written.

I swallow

The back door sticks when I try to open It. It always did. She used to tell me to pull it slightly toward me before pushing. I do that now. It works.

Of course it does.

The garden greets me all at once. Not with sound, but with movement. Leaves shifting, petals trembling, light catching on rough edges. It's messy. Overgrown. Alive in a way the house Isn't.

I step onto the stone path, what little of It I can see through the weeds. My shoes skim against something soft. I look down. Fallen petals, already turning back into soil.

"You didnt wait," I murmur.

Or maybe, I did

I kneel beside a cluster of flowers I recognize. Mother used to trim these carefully, Tend to it affectionately, nurture It tenderly. Always making sure they had just enough space to breathe and thrive. Now they lean into eachother, hunched over and tangled.

I reach out with my calloused fingers, lifting one gently and delicately between my fingers. The petal is more threadlike than I remember. Fragile. Like it might disappear If I hold It just even a little bit more tighter. "I don't know how to take care of you," I admit. My voice feels unnecessary here. The garden doesn't need it.

Something shifts. Not a sound. Just. . . a feeling. I stay frozen. Then cautiously, I whirl around.

It's stationed a little apart from everything else. I'm sure It wasn't there before. Or maybe it was and I just never noticed.

A single plant. Upright. Untouched by the catastrophy surrounding It. It's leave are darker than the others, almost glossy, capturing the light in a way that feels intentional. And at the center . . . A bud. Closed tight. Waiting.

I frown, pushing myself up slightly to get closer. ". . . What are you?" No answer. Not that I expect one.

The closer i get, the more everything else seems to fade. Not visually but something in the air feels. . . motionless. Like the garden is holding its breath with me.

I breath in deeply with somnolence.

Steadily, I crouch in front of it. Slowly and axiously, I reach out. Then hesitate.

" . . . You're warm."

The moment my fingers graze the surface, I pull back instinctively, My back straightening. Thats not right. Plants aren't warm like that. Not like skin. Not like something alive in the way I understand It.

I stare at it for a while. It doesn't move. Then something brushes against me. Not my skin. Not my ears. Somewhere deeper. I inhale sharply, reflexively turning my head so my right ear faces it, but nothing changes because It Isn't coming from there.

"Hello. . .?" The words feels strange as it leaves me. Unnecessary.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then abruptly, the bud trembles. Just ever so slightly.

I freeze, watching.

My heart starts beating faster. I don't know why.

Tardily . . . meticulously . . . I reach out again. However, this time, I don't pull away.

And for the first time since I stepped into this house.

I don't feel alone.

Chapter 2: Soil And Silence

Morning comes quietly.

Not because it's silent but because I don't notice It at first.

Light reaches me before anything else. It slips through the curtains, soft and pale, pressing gently against my eyelids until I open them.

For a moment, I don't remember where I am. That happens sometimes. Just for a few seconds. A blank space like a page I forgot to write on. Then it comes back. The house. The Garden. Her.

I gradually sit up, pressing my fingers against my temple out of habit. The dull ache Is faint today. It usually Is In the mornings. It gets worse later. I don't think about why though.

The house feels the same as last night. Still. Waiting.

I don't bother making breakfast. Instead, I step outside.

The garden looks different in daylight. Less mysterious. More. . . honest. The overgrowth is clearer now. Stems tangled together, weeds pushing through spaces they don't belong in. Some flowers have bloomed too early. Others have already begun to wilt. It's alive, just not well.

I tread forward onto the path. What's left of it, and crouch near the nearest clump of desicatted leaves.

The soil Is dry.

Not completely. Just enough to tell me it hasn't been cared for properly. " I guess that's my job now," I murmur, gazing upon the sky. The words feel strange. Not because I hear them wrong but because they sound like something she would of said.

I press my fingers into the sunbaked dirt. It crumbles easily.

Too easily.

"You always said the soil comes first." I pause, frowning slightly. Did she say that? The thought lingers longer than It should. I try to picture It. Her voice, the way she used to explain things but the memory feels . . . incomplete. Like something is missing from the middle.

I know she taught me. I just dont remember how.

I retract my hand back. There's dirt under my nails now. That part feels familiar. "Guess I'll figure It out."

I stand and look around the garden again, slower this time. If I dont know where to start, then I'll start anywhere.

I begin with the dead leaves. They're the easiest. One by one, I pull them away from the stems, dropping them into a small pile beside me. The motions come naturally, even when my thoughts don't.

Trim, clear, make space. My hands remember what my mind doesn't.

Time passes, I'm not bothered to measure it.

At some point, I notice I've been turning my head more than usual, Angling my right ear towards small movements. leaves brushing together. Something shifting behind me. I dont hear most of it, But I expect to.

It's a habit I can't break, Even when theres nothing to listen for.

I straighten slightly, tapping my hand against my neck.

There's a faint scar there. I trace It without thinking. I don't remember when I got it. I know how. But not . . . clearly. There's an Image. Blurred, shards of something on the floor. A voice, loud, sharp, overlapping with another, Then nothing.

I drop my hand, shuddering marginally. The memory slips away as swiftly as It came, like It was never mine to hold onto. ". . . It doesnt matter."

I say it out loud this time.

To make It real.

The garden doesn't answer, But It doesn't feel vacuous either.

I glance toward the far side, toward the strange flower. It's exactly where I left it but something about It feels oddly . . . oddly aware.

I approach It slowly and carefully. Like I might interrupt something If I move too fast.

The bud is still shut tightly, looking as unsympathetic as ever. But the colour seems to be more concentrated. Faint streaks scampering along its surface, almost like veins beneath skin.

I hesitate for a bit before kneeling. "You're still warm, aren't you?" I don't expect an answer. But when I reach out this time. I don't pull back.

The warmth is there. Subtle, steady and again. . . that feeling. Not a sound. Not a voice. But something brushing against me from the inside.

I inhale sharply, my body reacting before I understand why. "What are you?"

The question feels heavier now. Less curious.

More important.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the bud shifts. Not fully.

Just responding.

My fingers clench minorly around the stem. I don't even realize I'm doing It.

"Are you alive?" The words come out softer this time. Heedful. The garden feels still again. Like it's listening. Then the sensation comes back. Stronger.

Not words, but meaning. Something warm. Familiar.

A constricting feeling find It's way into my chest. "I know this," I whisper. "I've felt this before." But I cant remember where.

I pull my hand back slowly. My heart is beating too fast now. "You're just a flower." I tell it. I tell myself.

But even as I say it. I know that isn't true. I glance around the garden again. At the intertwined stems. The uneven blooms. The quiet life continuing without permission. "Fine."

I exhale steadily before reaching for the watering can left sitting on the cracked steps. It's lighter than I expect.

"If your going to be strange. . ." I stride back toward the plant, elevating the can slightly.

"Then I'll take care of you anyway."

The water splatters lightly into the soil at It's base. The earth darkens, drinking In the liquid appreciatively. For a while, nothing changes.

Unexpectedly, the warmth deepens. Not in the plant.

In me.

I freeze. " What was that?" No reply, but I don't move away. Because for the first time since I came back, something feels like It's reaching towards me.

And I don't want to lose it.

Even If I don't understand it yet.

Chapter 3: An Unwanted Visit

I was caught up in my thought so I didn't notice her at first.

I'm crouched near the edge of the garden, plucking away the last few dead leaves. The soil seems better today, darker where I watered it yesterday, a bit uneven but thats alright. Or maybe that's just me.

"Paeonia."

I halt.

Their voice. . . I recognise the shape of it. I turn automatically, tilting my head so my right ear is towards the voice. And there, Mika stood just beyond the gate. I was simply gawking at her. "You're really here," she mumbles. Her arms are crossed, eyes fixed on me. She looks like she's been standing there for a while now, just observing me.

"You didnt have to come." My voice comes out quieter than I meant it to.

She exhales, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "I know."

The gate clicks behind her and the resonant footsteps follow, although I feel it more than I hear it.

For a while, neither of us says anything. Mika glances around the garden lesiurely, her expression shifting in small ways she probably thinks I won't notice.

"It's in worse condition that I thought," she mutters.

"I just started yesterday."

"I can definitely tell, Paeonia"

I dont respond to that, instead I go back to what I was doing. Tugging away another dead stem, dropping it into the pile beside me. Mika watches for a few seconds before opening her mouth.

"You didn't answer your phone."

"I know."

"You didn't reply to my messages."

"I know."

Her tone sharpens.

"Then why didn't you-"

"I said I know," I state, interrupting her.

The words come out firmer this time. I don't look her way.

Silence settles in between us again, thicker this time.

". . . You just disappeared," Mika announces finally. Softer, not accusing. Just tired.

I pause, my fingers still wrapped around a brittle leaf. "I didn't disappear," I declare. "I'm here."

"Thats not what I meant,"

I know, I just don't have a better answer.

She inches closer, her white sneaker brushing against the overgrown path. "You didn't come back to school. You didn't tell anyone anything, you just-"

She stops, exhaling intensely. "And then I hear you're living here alone?" I shrug slightly.

"She left you this house, not a grave!" Mika exclaims with a sudden outburst.

That makes me look up.

Her expression shifts immediately. She didn't meant to say it like that, I can see it. "I'm taking care of it," I say nonchalantly.

"By hiding in it?"

I flinch just by a bit, but enough that she notices. "I'm not hiding."

"You're not living either."

The words land harder than they should, or maybe exactly as hard as they're meant to. I look away from her. Towards the far side of the garden, towards the flower. It's still there, still quiet, still . . . watching.

". . . I like it here," I whisper.

Mika follows my gaze, but she doesn't understand what I'm looking at. Of course, because all she can really see is overgrowth and neglect. "You always liked quiet," she says "But this isn't that."

I don't answer because I'm in a loss of words, not really knowing how to explain it. That this quiet isn't empty, that it doesnt demand anything from me and just doesn't slip pass me like running water.

"That's not normal, Paeonia."

I let out a small breath. "Maybe I don't want normal."

Mika steps closer again, close enough that I can see her clearly without trying. "That's not what this is," she replies. "This isn't you choosing something different, this is you running away"

"I'm not running."

"Then what are you doing?"

I open my mouth, then pause because I don't have an answer. The silence stretches.

". . . You cant stay here forever," Mika responds.

I don't stop averting my gaze away from her. "I'm not planning that far ahead."

"Thats exactly the problem." Her voice cracks slightly.

"I'm worried about you," she adds, quieter now.

I grip the edge of my sleeve rigidly without thinking. ". . . You don't have to be."

"I know I don't have to be," she snaps, "but I want to be"

That makes something in my chest tighten, I hate that.

". . . I'm fine." I tell.

"You're not."

"I am."

"You're not"

"I said I am, what do you not understand?"

My voice rises moderately.

Mika goes frigid. For a moment, we both don't move. Then she exhales heavily, running a hand through her hair. "Fine, If this is what you want," she says, stamping back toward the gate, "then I won't force you."

Relief fills me, but like a side effect of a bitter medicine, something uncomfortable also forces itself in me.

"But don't pretend this is healthy,"she adds. "And don't expect people to just wait forever."

That one stays.

She unlocks the gate. "I'll come back" she murmurs, without turning around.

The gate shuts behind her, now the garden feels different again. Not empty, simply quieter in a heavier way.

I sit there for a while, abscent.

Then casually, I turn my head facing the flower. ". . .You didn't like that either, did you?"

I don't know why I blurt that out but when I reach out, the geniality of warmth is there again.

Unquestionably stronger.

I rested my eyes for just a moment. "At least you stayed." the statement coming out gentler than I expect. And this time, I'm not sure if I'm talking to the plant, or to myself.