The morning light seeped through the stained glass of the greenhouse roof, casting dancing colors across Sera's skin. She stood still among the greenery, the scent of jasmine and damp soil rising around her like a living breath. She could feel it—the shift. Something had changed. The greenhouse wasn't just a monument anymore. It was awake.
She brushed her fingers across the petals of a blood-red camellia, the same flower from her vision. It hadn't been there yesterday.
"Celeste," she whispered. "What are you trying to tell me?"
Footsteps crunched on the path behind her. She turned, expecting Lina. Instead, it was Mira—face drawn tight, dark eyes sharper than usual.
"We need to talk," Mira said curtly, not waiting for an invitation. She walked into the greenhouse like it was still hers.
Sera crossed her arms. "Morning to you too."
Mira scanned the room. "Have the dreams started?"
Sera blinked. "Dreams?"
"The kind that don't feel like dreams. That leave dirt under your nails when you wake up. That show you things you were never told."
Sera felt a chill crawl up her arms. She hadn't told anyone about the vision. Not even Lina.
"I thought it was just a memory… or something imagined."
Mira snorted. "That's what everyone thinks at first. But the greenhouse doesn't do 'imagined.' It remembers for us. Sometimes even against our will."
Sera hesitated. "Why now?"
"Because it's waking up. Because you're stirring it. And because someone's trying to kill what Celeste left behind."
Sera's stomach tightened. "You mean the council."
Mira nodded. "They want the land. They want silence. They never forgave her for turning this place into a haven for the girls they tried to break."
Sera's breath hitched. "She never told me."
"She was trying to protect you. Like she protected all of us."
They stood in silence. Around them, the plants swayed softly as if listening.
Then Mira said, "You need to read the letters."
"What letters?"
"The ones hidden in the root cellar beneath the greenhouse. She wrote dozens—some to you, some to others. Instructions. Warnings. Her truth."
Sera swallowed. "Why didn't you read them?"
Mira's voice dropped. "Because she made me promise to leave them unopened until you came back."
It felt like the air thickened around them. The camellia at Sera's fingertips trembled without wind.
"Show me," she said.
They pried open the floor panel behind the central planting bed. Beneath it was a rusted latch, then a stone step leading down into darkness. Mira handed Sera a flashlight.
The root cellar was cool and musty. Shelves lined the walls—old jars of preserves, dried herbs, dusty gardening tools. But in the farthest corner was a wooden chest, sealed with twine and wax.
Sera knelt and opened it slowly.
Inside were envelopes. Dozens of them. Each sealed, each with names in Celeste's handwriting. Her name sat on top: Sera.
Hands shaking, Sera broke the seal.
My darling girl, the letter began.
Tears pricked her eyes.
If you're reading this, then I'm gone—and you've come back. I always knew you would. This greenhouse, this land—it was never just a garden. It's a memory. A battleground. A home for the broken who still bloom.
Celeste wrote about the girls she hid—runaways, victims, queer youth shunned by families. She spoke of rituals, healing ceremonies, visions the plants gave. Of the council's threats. Of a pact she made with the land itself.
The plants are listening. They remember everything. And they protect those who care for them.
By the end, Sera's hands were trembling.
"I didn't know," she whispered.
Mira was beside her, silent and solemn.
"You do now."
Sera wiped her cheeks. "Then I can't leave. I can't sell this place."
Mira nodded once. "Good. Because they're coming. And you'll need all the strength this garden can give."
That night, Sera didn't sleep.
She lay beside Lina in her aunt's old bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind whisper through cracked windows. Lina shifted beside her.
"You're stiff," Lina murmured sleepily. "Your thoughts are loud."
"I found letters," Sera said. "Dozens of them. From Celeste. She was protecting people—this greenhouse—it's more than just a garden."
Lina propped herself on one elbow, fully awake now. "I know."
Sera turned. "You knew?"
"I didn't know details. But people talk. Women would show up, sometimes scared, bruised, quiet. They left different. Stronger. We all knew Celeste was doing something powerful. Most of us stayed silent to protect it."
Sera let out a shaky breath. "I thought I was just here to sell a property. Now I'm... carrying a legacy I don't understand."
Lina touched her cheek. "You don't have to understand it all. You just have to keep it alive."
The quiet between them was warm this time. Not lonely.
Sera leaned in. Their lips met—not rushed, not hungry. Just there. Steady. Rooted.
In that kiss, Sera felt a strange certainty bloom.
She would fight for this place.
Not just for Celeste.
For herself.
The next day, the mayor posted a notice on the gate: "Public Hearing for Redevelopment Proposal – One Week."
They wanted to demolish it.
But Sera smiled.
Let them try.
Because The Blooming Season had just begun.