The Garden Within
Darkness held Seren, vast and soundless. She floated, untethered, as time unraveled.
A faint sensation stirred—a thread slipping loose, fragile and uncertain. Voices hovered at the edges of her awareness, dissolving into murmurs beyond her grasp. She reached—or thought she did—but her form felt hollow, as though it had never existed.
Then, she fell.
The landing was soft. Cool moss cushioned her feet, its texture steadying her. Light crept into the void’s edges, unfurling in hues that shimmered faintly, alive with quiet rhythm. A garden emerged, its petals trembling, leaves brushing like whispers, and a breeze humming low through the trees. The air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, just beyond reach. At its center lay a pool of water, impossibly still, brimming with reflected starlight.
Seren exhaled, her breath unsteady. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe,” a voice replied.
She turned. A woman stood nearby, her silver hair catching the garden’s light. Her eyes were dark and endless, like the pool at twilight. Her moss-colored dress clung to her form as though it had grown there, roots and all.
“Who are you?” Seren asked.
“I am the Gardener,” the woman said, her voice calm and measured. “And this place is yours.”
Seren frowned. “Mine? I don’t understand.”
The Gardener tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “A refuge. A mirror. A place to breathe, to remember, to be. But it will remain yours only as long as you tend to it.”
Seren looked around, unsure whether to feel comforted or uneasy. She wandered slowly along the path, her fingers brushing the petals of a glowing flower. Though the Gardener’s words lingered, the air felt steady, calming. Her shoulders loosened. The tightness she hadn’t known was there began to ease.
The garden became her haven.
Whenever she stepped into its embrace, the weight she carried lifted. Time faded here, dissolving like mist in morning light. She came without thinking, drawn by the stillness that wrapped around her like a quiet sigh.
But the peace didn’t last.
t first, a single flower curled inward, its color draining into shadow. Then a tree’s leaves quivered, brittle and gray at the edges. With each visit, the signs sharpened: moss thinning in patches, the path crumbling softly beneath her steps. The pool, once serene, rippled faintly, its stars dimming as though a storm stirred beneath its surface.
“What’s happening?” Seren asked, her voice trembling.
The Gardener stood at the edge of the pool, her soil-streaked hands resting loosely at her sides. “The garden reflects you, Seren. It thrives when you care for it—and for yourself. But you’ve been using it to hide, not to tend.”
Seren knelt by a dying flower, her fingers brushing its brittle petals. “I come here to rest. To find peace. Isn’t that what it’s for?”
The Gardener’s gaze shifted to the pool. “Peace isn’t something you take. It must be nurtured. The garden cannot flourish if you give nothing back.”
Seren hesitated, her hand lingering on the bark of a tree, its surface splintering under her touch. Her breath caught. “How do I make it right?”
The Gardener’s eyes softened, her voice quiet. “Begin with balance. Care for the garden as you would care for yourself. It’s not here to save you—it’s here to remind you.”
One day, Seren reached for the garden and found nothing.
The path she’d walked so often was gone, replaced by an unbroken wall of ivy and stone. She pressed her palms against the cold surface, tracing its rough texture. The ivy clung stubbornly, its damp leaves brushing her skin.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice unraveling in the stillness.
The void pressed closer, heavy and unrelenting, coiling tightly around her ribs.
Then, faintly, the voices returned.
“Vitals unstable. She’s fading.”
“Try again. We’re losing her.”
The words fractured the silence, sharp and urgent. Seren stumbled back, her legs unsteady. The garden was gone. The void surrounded her, vast and unyielding. But beneath the rising panic, a thread of resolve flickered.
She closed her eyes. The garden wasn’t gone—it couldn’t be.
She rebuilt it in her mind, stone by stone, petal by petal. She pictured the moss beneath her feet, the hum of the trees, the pool shimmering faintly with stars. Her hands cupped the water, its coolness grounding her. Slowly, she poured it over the roots of a withered tree, her movements steady and deliberate.
The silence around her softened, the faintest hum beginning to stir.
When Seren opened her eyes, the garden was there—but it was in ruins.
The trees stood bare, their branches brittle as bone. The flowers were shriveled, their colors faded to ash. The pool, no longer still, rippled faintly, its stars scattered like distant echoes. Yet something lingered—a hum beneath the quiet, a pulse of life waiting to be revived.
She knelt by the pool and dipped her hands into its water. The coolness steadied her, grounding her. She poured it over the roots of a tree, her voice soft. “I’ll tend to it,” she said. “Not as an escape, but as part of me.”
The tree trembled. A single green leaf unfurled, catching the faint light.
The Gardener appeared beside her, silent. Seren didn’t look at her. She didn’t need to. Instead, she cupped more water and began again.
Light pressed against Seren’s closed eyes, sharp and relentless.
She blinked. The hum of machines filled the air, steady and insistent. The sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with something softer—damp moss, or its faint memory.
“She’s waking,” a voice murmured.
Seren turned her head, her throat raw. A woman leaned over her, her relief barely hidden.
“Welcome back,” the woman said.
Seren’s lips moved, the words a rasp. “The garden…”
The woman frowned. “Garden?”
Seren closed her eyes. Her hand rested lightly on her chest. “It’s still here,” she murmured.
The hum of machines softened, folding into the rhythm of her breath. Beneath her ribs, her heart beat steady and certain, carrying the quiet weight of something new.