The Memory Gardener

The Oceanview Home

Above the garden, the building looms majestically against a sky that is cobalt blue and expansive, freshly swept of stars.

On the upper floors, the windows are dark, the men and women inside still cocooned within their well-earned sleep.

Standing among these flowers that I have urged back to life, encircled by scents as powerful as secrets, fear vibrates through me—fear that what I have given the people who live here is not hope but heartbreak.

Already, there has been death, a loss that weighs as heavily on my heart as it does my conscience.

I have brought grief here despite only ever wanting to bring comfort, a moment of remembered pleasure, a small, bright flash of clarity… .

I feel an old urge to turn, to simply leave, to disappear before the day fully breaks as I have so many times before.

But the air is suddenly thick with the aroma of chamomile blossoms, and the fragrance—soft, herbaceous, green—steadies my pulse. It is the scent of patience, the garden’s assurance that it won’t be long now.

Today, the flowers promise. Today I will learn if my little gifts have done more harm than good.

Today we will know if this is the end… or the beginning.