They returned to the garden just before twilight.
The stone path behind them felt longer now, but lighter, like some of the shadows had chosen to stay behind. Elowen held Amara's hand the whole way, not because Amara needed it, but because she wanted her to know: I am here. Still. Always.
The rose gate stood open when they arrived.
Not because they forced it.
But because the garden recognized them now.
Elowen stepped through first, feeling the hum of magic beneath her feet, subtle and sweet like a memory stirred awake. The petals above her head bloomed in slow waves, releasing a fragrance she had never noticed before—soft like lilac, warm like sunlit skin.
Amara followed close behind, pausing once beneath the arch. She pressed her fingers to the old vines, whispering something under her breath.
"Elowen," she said, after a long moment, "there's something I haven't told you."
Elowen turned, sensing the shift in her voice.
"This garden," Amara continued, "wasn't always mine. It belonged to my sister first. She planted the roses. Named them. Loved them. They grew from her joy."
Elowen looked around—the winding paths, the silver-thorned stems, the flowers with petals that shimmered like stardust.
"She must've been beautiful," Elowen said softly.
"She was," Amara replied. "And when she forgot me, the garden changed. It didn't die—but it forgot her too. Slowly. Like soil without sunlight."
Elowen stepped into the heart of the garden. "Do you think... it could remember again?"
Amara's eyes widened. "Maybe. If we reminded it."
So they began.
Not with spells. Not with ancient words.
With care.
Amara showed Elowen the garden's hidden corners—the moss-wrapped benches, the shadowed alcove where her sister used to sing. Elowen, in turn, shared stories of her own—of the tiny herb pots she kept on her windowsill, the single daisy she once rescued from a storm.
And together, they touched the plants gently. Watered the dry roots. Picked away the dead leaves.
The roses responded.
At first, only faint color bloomed.
But as the hours passed, something changed.
A row of forgotten blossoms near the north wall unfurled. Bright yellow, like laughter. Then another cluster, deep purple, like dreams pressed between pages.
Elowen gasped. "Are those...?"
Amara nodded, wonder in her eyes. "Her favorites."
They knelt in front of the flowers, breathing in the scent of something long-lost and gently returned.
The wind moved through the garden then—not wildly, but like a sigh. A thank you.
And then, faint and distant, a voice. Soft. Clear.
"Don't let her be forgotten."
Elowen turned sharply. "Did you hear that?"
Amara's hand trembled slightly in hers. "Yes."
The roses shivered, shedding a few petals—not out of sadness, but like an exhale. A gift.
Elowen rose and crossed to the old stone bench near the heart of the garden. "Tell me her name," she said.
Amara hesitated. Her eyes filled with something more powerful than grief—love, cracked open and full of light.
"Her name was Caelia."
Elowen smiled. "Then let's plant something for her. Something only she would recognize."
Amara blinked fast. "What did you have in mind?"
"A moonvine," Elowen said. "You told me once they only bloom when the right soul calls them."
"They haven't bloomed in years," Amara whispered.
"Then let's try."
Together, they found the patch where moonvines had once grown—by the eastern wall, where moonlight lingered the longest. The soil was dry, tired. But still alive.
Elowen knelt and pressed her fingers into the earth. She didn't chant. Didn't cast. Just closed her eyes and thought of Caelia—the girl who loved too boldly, who sang to rosebuds, who gave magic its shape in a garden that still remembered her.
Amara joined her, fingers curled into hers.
They stayed like that as the sky dimmed, and the stars blinked awake above them.
Then—
A single bud pushed through the soil.
Elowen gasped. "Look—!"
The bud trembled. Opened.
A moonvine bloom. Pale, glowing.
One petal unfurled. Then another. Then five.
Amara covered her mouth with her hands.
"She heard us," she whispered.
"No," Elowen said gently. "She never stopped listening."
They stayed in the garden long after that. Not speaking much. Just breathing. Remembering.
And as the night deepened, the moonvines stretched higher, curling along the wall like arms reaching toward home.
The garden remembered her name.
And so would they.