7. A Garden With No Gardener
a garden with no gardener
The grove is a swamp of silver slush. The first of the peonies have started to return. They aren’t orange yet. They’re pale, as if they’re afraid to commit to the world after such a brutal winter.
I spent the morning on my knees, breathing my own magic into the soil. I felt the life leaving me and entering the roots.
My skin has begun peeling away in large, itchy strips of bark-like foliage, revealing the raw, green flesh underneath.
It hurts to exist right now. Every breeze feels like a slap.
Sage is shedding! Droot chirps. He tries to help by tugging on a loose piece of bark near my shoulder. Sage is becoming soft-skin again!
“Careful, Droot,” I groan. “I’m not as tough as I was last summer.”
Day 320: There’s a tug in my chest.
When I press my ear to the glass, I can hear a low hum, like a beehive waking up for its queen. It thrums to the beat of my heart.
I think… I was sent here to watch over the meadow. The more I connect with it, the more it responds to me. I’ve started practicing with my magic. Once I can control it, I want to grow a home for us.
Day 331: The scent is nearly unbearable now.
The peonies have exploded. The grove is a sea of fire-orange petals, and the air is so thick with their aroma that I can taste it on the back of my tongue.
It should be beautiful, but instead they’ve become a countdown.
Every morning, the sun peeks through the trees. I look at your hands—for the twitch—for the flutter of a lash.
For anything.
I’ve started pacing.
I’ve already worn a circular path into the new grass around the plinth. My wings are almost fully healed, the new gold membranes shimmering.
I find myself daydreaming about holding you above the meadow, my wings fluttering in the moonlit sky while I whisper all the things you haven’t gotten to hear yet. The stronger those daydreams become, the stronger the dark voice in my mind gets.
Sage is a grumpy bird, Droot chirps from the top of her box. He’s batting at a stray petal like a kitten might. The Sun is sleeping deep. Maybe she’s having a very long dream about snacks?
“It’s not a dream about snacks, Droot,” I snap. Then immediately feel guilt twist in my stomach. “I’m sorry, little guy,” I sigh. “I just… the year is almost over. Why isn’t she moving?”
I kneel down and press my ear to the glass. The humming is louder than yesterday. And yesterday it was louder than the day before. But the woman beneath the crystal remains as still as a painting.
I’m starting to hate these flowers.
They’re celebrating a victory that hasn’t happened yet.
Day 345: I’ve been a hollow, bitter male lately, and Droot doesn’t deserve to be my target.
He’s been quiet for days—no somersaults, no light-shows, just a tiny, worried bunny hiding beneath the shadows of the branches.
He hasn’t even slept on me.
He thinks he’s done something wrong, when the only thing wrong here is my patience.
This morning, I spent a few hours gathering emerald and gold pieces that have shed from my wings. They’re soft and warm, like silk. They even hold the slightest bit of magic.
I weave the silk flakes with a few strands of sweetgrass to form a tiny, shimmering hammock, and hang it from the lowest willow branch right above you.
“Come here, you little nuisance,” I whisper, my voice finally losing its raspy edge. He approaches tentatively, his little paws shuffling softly on the stone.
When I set him inside, his fur begins to filter through an array of colors.
“You can change colors?” I gasp.
No? Can you? he chirps.
“Droot. You’re glowing… like a rainbow.”
Maybe because Sage is a good bird! he pips. Sage has gold fingers! Droot is the King of the Sun-Room!
I let out a small chuckle, the first in weeks. “Yeah, yeah. You’re the King. Just don’t get a big head about it.”
Guilt pangs through me as he plays. I’ve been so focused on Eden that I almost forgot to live with the first creature who ever accepted me.
I lean against the plinth, watching him swing. For a moment, the clock ticking in my head goes quiet, and the peonies are just flowers again. I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face.
“Wake up, Eden,” I whisper. “Droot can’t wait to meet you.”
Day 358: I feel like I’m vibrating out of my own skin.
The grove is no longer silent. It’s not just the bees or the plants anymore; it’s the magic itself.
The air around your box is humming with a low frequency that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Every time I touch the glass, a spark of golden light jumps from the crystal to my fingertips.
The peonies have reached their peak. They are heavy, overly bloomed, and dripping with nectar that smells like honey.
It’s too much.
The beauty is so intense it feels aggressive.
I spent the afternoon sitting at your feet, my wings spread wide to bathe in the sun. The scar on my wing is still dark, but I’ve stopped trying to hide it. It’s a part of the map of our first year together.
Droot has started pulsing specific colors to show his emotions. Neon yellow means he’s ecstatic, while red means he’s embarrassed.
Soon? Droot pulses, his light a bright, hopeful pink. Is The Sun coming out of the box soon?
“Seven days,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Seven days until the year is full.”
I trace the outline of her hand.
I’m terrified of the 365th day. What if the sun rises and sets, and the glass stays whole? What if I’ve spent a year talking to a ghost?
I press my forehead to the crystal and close my eyes against the glare of the orange petals.
“Please,” I breathe. “Please don’t make me do another year. I don’t think there’s enough of me left to survive it.”
Day 364: The sun has risen above the horizon for the 364th time, luváel.
I spent part of the morning at the stream. The water was still bitterly cold, but I took a handful of coarse silt and scrubbed my skin until I sloughed off the top layer of green.
There’s an embarrassing amount of shimmer to my flesh now—a soft glittering green that catches the light like a beetle’s shell.
I spent hours preening my wings, smoothing the new gold membranes until they glowed. I couldn’t fix the scar, but I polished it with the sweet oil of golden buttercup scales until it shone.
What are buttercup scales, you may wonder?
They’re tiny amber-colored insects that spend their lives nestled atop giant buttercups.
Don’t worry.
I didn’t hurt them. They gave their scales to me willingly. They shed only once a year, and I just happened to arrive at the right time.
I want you to see the male who survived for you, not the ruin the winter tried to make of me.
Sage is a shiny leaf! Droot chirps, pulsing the same shade of green as my skin. Sage is glowing! The Sun will think you are a very big jewel!
“I just don’t want to scare her, Droot,” I whisper, looking at my reflection in the water.
I spend the next few hours manically cleaning the grove until not a single dead leaf remains.
I end my day at the head of her box.
I haven’t moved since I sat here. Except my wings, which twitch nervously behind my back.
I feel like a bowstring pulled so tight that the slightest breath might snap me in two.
The grove is unnaturally quiet tonight.
Even the crickets have gone silent.
“One more sunrise, mí’peora,” I whisper. (My peony) “I’ve told you every story I have. I’ve given you my blood, my wings, my devotion. Tomorrow, the debt to the gods is paid.”
I’m not going to sleep.
I’m going to watch the moon pass over your face, and I’m going to be awake when the first ray of the 365th day hits this glass.
I have to be the first thing you see.
I have to know if you remember the male who talked to you in the dark.
Day 365: The sun has set.
I sat on the grass and tracked every agonizing inch as it sank behind the trees.
I waited for the glass to crack…
For the tether to snap and pull you back from the land of dreamers. For the miracle I’ve been promising my own desperate heart for the last twelve months to come true.
It didn’t.
The moon is high now.
And the grove is a graveyard of orange petals.
The 365th day is over, and your box is still closed.
I’ve spent the last hour screaming at the sky.
The anger has left, and now all I’m left with is… emptiness.
I press my face against the glass, my tears smearing the surface I spent a year keeping pristine.
“Was it not enough?” I whisper to the moon. “I gave you a year! I gave you blood. What more do you want from me?”
The gods didn’t answer. I’m not sure there are any.
Sage is leaking, Droot chirps, his light a mourning gray. He huddles at the edge of the stone, his little head bowed. The Sun is still in the box. The box won’t open.
“I know, Droot,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “I know.”
I don’t think I can do Day 366. I feel like a candle that has finally burned to the wick.
I am a garden with no gardener.
The hope that has kept me upright for a year finally dies.
Maybe it’s time for me to sleep along with her and let the darkness finally take me.
Day 366:
I wake to the scent of rain and honey.
There’s a warmth on my cheek that feels different than the sun.
A soft touch settles over my hand.
My eyes snap open.
Eden fills my vision, like a goddess carved from light. Copper hair cascades down her shoulders in wild curls, and her eyes are wide with wonder.
“EDEN!” I scream. “You’re awake!”
She giggles. “You’re real.”
Her fingers brush over my cheek, and the gold pollen on my skin glows. “I heard you,” she says, a tear spilling down her face. “I heard you every night. I followed the scent of clovers and the sound of your voice.”
She glances at my wings, then back to my eyes.
A shaky smile spreads across her lips. “You stayed.”
I cover her hand with mine, but my fingers don’t meet warm skin. I fall from the stone, my shoulder slamming into the ground. I scramble up, gasping, the taste of honey still lingering on my tongue.
“Eden?” I choke out. “Where did you—”
My eyes catch on the glass case, where she’s still lying fast asleep.
Sage? Droot chirps. The Sun… The Sun didn’t come out.
“No, Droot,” I whisper, my voice barely a thing at all. “She didn’t.”