The rain started just after dawn, steady and rhythmic, as if the sky was drumming a warning. By noon, puddles lined the cobbled paths of Elowen Ridge, and the town hall filled with the scent of damp coats and tension.
Sera stood in front of the mirror in the guest room of the greenhouse. She wore a simple black suit, her curls pulled back into a braid that framed her determined face. In her pocket were two things: Celeste's final letter to the mayor and the damning photos of the council's backdoor dealings.
Mira met her at the door, her umbrella tilted against the wind. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
They walked in silence, passing familiar faces along the way—people who had joined the tours, signed the petition, shared their stories. They nodded in quiet solidarity. The town's undercurrent had shifted. Sera felt it in the air.
At the council chamber, the mayor's usual smug calm was absent. Tension clung to the air like smoke.
"We have received additional evidence pertaining to the greenhouse matter," the mayor began, eyes darting to the envelope Mira had dropped off that morning. "This hearing will be... comprehensive."
Sera stepped up again, this time not with fear—but fire.
"I have proof," she said, pulling out the photos. "Of bribery. Of attempts to erase my aunt's work not because it wasn't valuable, but because it was inconvenient."
Murmurs rippled through the audience.
"I have witness testimony from over fifty women who were helped by Celeste Wynn. Some of them are here today. Some of them live right in this town. One of them," she paused, "is your own assistant, Mr. Mayor."
Gasps followed. The mayor stiffened.
A woman from the crowd stood—young, with red hair and tears in her eyes.
"She saved me," she said. "When I had no one. I was fifteen."
Others followed. One by one, women rose to speak. Some shaking, some bold. Their voices filled the room like a chorus too powerful to silence.
"You can't pave over history."
"She taught me to survive."
"I owe her my life."
Council members looked visibly shaken. The mayor paled.
Sera reached into her coat and unfolded Celeste's last letter.
It read simply:
"To those who will one day judge this place, I ask only this: see the truth beyond the glass. The blooms, the soil, the hands that healed here—they are more than plants. They are people. And they deserve roots."
She set the letter on the podium.
"I won't let you destroy this. Not for profit. Not for politics."
A beat.
Then the youngest councilwoman stood. "I move to suspend all demolition plans and designate the greenhouse as a historic and protected landmark."
Seconded.
Passed.
Just like that, it was over.
Applause erupted—real this time. Raw and grateful.
Later that night, Sera walked barefoot into the greenhouse. The blue orchid shimmered beneath the moonlight, petals full and impossibly vivid. June sat nearby, sipping tea and sketching.
"You did it," June said quietly.
"No," Sera replied, touching the petals. "We did."
Outside, the rain had stopped. A single beam of moonlight broke through the clouds, catching on the glass above her head.
Celeste's legacy was safe.
But Sera's story was just beginning.