The Garden Left Behind
“. . . I’m home.”
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.
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. Neat. Careful.
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, anxiously, 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. Waiting.
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.
